Debra Morgan: Season 1
by Bone Dry
Summary: My answer to my question of what the first season would've looked like if Deb had been the one narrating it instead of Dexter. Written as between-scenes/vignettes, and as a sort of episode companion.
1. Fogged-Up Mirror

_A/N: I love Debra Morgan. I think by s3 I was actively wishing the show would suddenly rebrand itself _Debra_, and by the time s5 rolled around I would've happily thrown Dexter through a meat grinder if it meant I could get more screen-time for Deb (and let's not even talk about s7 and Hannah McKay..). Then the series finale happened, and now I can't do a rerun without mourning her and wishing there was just more: more scenes, more moments, more Deb. It really doesn't matter what season or what ep; there are always plenty of times where all I do is wonder at where Deb is during the scene and how different the narrative would be if it was hers. She deserved a thousand times better than being forever overshadowed and eventually consumed by Dexter's greed. She died a stupid, pointless death and it continues to piss me off every time I think about it._

_So this is me giving (or, at least, attempting to give) her the narrative for s1, to try to disentangle her from Dexter's (and Brian Moser's) context. Hope you like it half as much as I enjoyed working with her._

* * *

><p><em>Fogged-Up Mirror<br>__Setting: before "Dexter"_

* * *

><p>You know, when I was... I don't know, 11 or 12 or something, I had a very specific image of myself, of who I wanted to be. Powerful. In control of everything. People would shit their pants when I walked into the room. People would want to do things for <em>me<em>, just to get on my good side. I would be some grand fucking poobah, a rockstar, and no one would ever step over me, or just... I don't know, just forget me.

I held onto that for a long time, somewhere not so deep down. I still do. And right now that grand fucking... whatever (Lieutenant? Captain? Deputy Effin Chief?) is staring back at me in that fogged-up mirror, judging the shit out of me. Nudity is the grand equalizer, and from right here where I'm standing outside my shower, it'd be impossible to distinguish between Chief Go Fuck Yourself Morgan and Brandy the cop cum whore.

But then I pop in my contacts, wander into the bedroom and select my outfit off the top of two different piles on the bed, smell check them as I step over to the dresser and look around. Cheap earrings? Check. Shitty, trashy rings? Check. Animal print chiffon bra? Check, but ew. Then back into the bathroom to schmear on extra dark liner and that awful fucking sparkly eye shadow, the fake fake lashes and the red red lipstick that just screams "Hey, wanna fuck me in the backseat of your station wagon?"

As I stare into the mirror, already feeling the thong riding up my ass, I can't see that tough, Wall Street-esque bitch anymore. It's just me in there, looking small and... exposed. In more ways than one.

Almost two years I've spent in this shithole corner of the department, where careers go to stagnate and die. The guys get the more interesting stuff— following all that underground coke flowing from the Cuban and the Russian and the Mexican mobs —but half the female officers who get bumped from patrol are handed a g-string and a packet of bubblegum, thrown directly to the sharks. I never really expected any different, but that didn't stop me from hoping. Now it's less a hope than a need. I _need_ to get the fuck out of Vice.

I head into the living room, shove all the shit on the couch off it or just to the side, then plop on top, adjusting my undies with a thumb. Yesterday's crime scene is fresh in my mind, has been playing across the back of my eyelids since I saw it— all night, all this morning. I don't know the girl who died, and frankly I don't really know the details beyond what I heard over dispatch, which was what led me there to begin with, but the _sight_ of it won't leave me alone. Her body, all chopped and sectioned and wrapped up in brown paper, skin pale as milk, all dead and bloodless and awful. I was off-duty yesterday, wearing actual clothes, and when I rolled up and flashed my badge they let me under the tape, and for like ten whole minutes I felt like a _real_ cop, the cop I'm meant to be, standing over some dead girl wondering how the hell she ended up there. But then the fuckers from Homicide noticed me, asked what I was doing there, and I was kicked off the premises by Miami Metro's newest LT— Maria LaGuerta.

Goddamn, but she looked at me like I was a piece of dog shit.

I glance off the couch, spot Friday's cheek-riding shorts on the ground, stab them with two fingertips and pull them toward me. Inside one of the pockets is a cigarette, which I pull out and stick between my teeth. On the coffee table is a lighter, and I sit up just enough to light up, then fall back, exhaling gratefully.

I need to find an in. That case has primetime CNN mini-series written all over it. If I'd been first on scene or something maybe I could've found some way to get onto that team. Dazzled them with some fucking insight, I don't know, but it's annoying me that as I was standing there I had fuck all to say. I didn't notice... anything. She just looked dead, in some fucked up, ritualistic way. On the rare occasion anyone does notice me around the water cooler (or... the metaphorical water cooler; who the fuck has time to hover around a water cooler, anyway?), I'm Harry's Daughter. I know they wonder where my upward momentum is, if I have a teaspoon's worth of instincts. Even though my father spent his whole career in the box, other cops talk about him like he was a hero, and by their estimations I fall far, far short of the Morgan Legacy. My brother's at least some hotshot blood guy, but me, I'm just some chickenshit in Vice, and it hurts more than I want to admit even to myself when a fellow officer suggests I try climbing the ladder from my knees.

I blow smoke out hard, swallowing and glaring up at the ceiling, at the oscillating fan, the water damage in the corner.

And then there's that fucking dead girl again. IDed on-scene as a prostitute. Cut into a bunch of roughly equal-sized pieces: a jigsaw puzzle, not a person. It bothers me that the first thing I grasped when I saw her was opportunity rather than empathy. She was just like the girls I spend half my time with, yet she could've been a dead goldfish for how little she registered with me.

How fucked up is that?

A muffled buzzing attracts my attention, and I glance away from the ceiling.

_Phone._ (Shit, what time is it?)

I search around the couch, the random clothes piled by my feet, then lean off to check the floor again, cigarette gripped between my teeth. Shifting a shirt aside, I uncover and grab the phone, then sit up to tap off some ash into an empty styrofoam cup.

"Morgan," I say, answering without checking the ID.

There's a brief, airless pause, then, "Hello, can I speak with Debra Morgan?"

I blow out smoke, "Speaking," I already know what this is.

"This is Henry Richardson. You've been selected to—"

"Fuck off." I flip the phone shut, take another drag, set it on the couch beside me. Then I remember my initial question, dig for it again, holding the cancerstick in one hand as I lift the phone aloft with the other and stare at the little digital screen.

8:26.

I've got some time.

My gaze wanders to the TV as I let my hand fall. At least one of the local channels is bound to be running something on the dead prostitute, and for whatever reason I want to know what everyone else knows. Maybe just to continue the fantasy that _that_ is going to be my day, rather than it being a bunch of gross, sweaty, disgusting fuckwads staring at my ass.

I start digging around for the remote.


	2. Listening to Traffic

_Listening to Traffic  
><em>_Setting: before "Dexter"_

* * *

><p>"Hey, I mean it, thanks for your call. You don't know how much it means to hear a friendly voice on the phone."<p>

"Hey," I stop and dig around for my keys, cradling the phone with my shoulder. "Listen to me, things will get better. And if you need anything, just call me. God knows I never fucking sleep." I finally locate the keys half inside a pack of Morleys, and I pull them out and insert one of them into my door. "Or, hey, call my brother. I think he really likes you."

"Yeah," she exhales into the phone as my door pops open. "Yeah, I like him too. He was supposed to come over for dinner but he had to work late."

"Yeah, he's always working late. Probably's blown me off at least a thousand times for a bloody q-tip." I shift the phone back into my hand. "Don't let up on him. He can be dense as fucking lead but he's a good guy."

"I won't."

"Good. I'll call you later. Say hi to Dex if he does decide to show up."

"I will. Good night."

"Night." I click off, let my hand fall as I look at my door. Just through the crack I can see my pitch black apartment. After a second I open the door and flip on the lights, toss my purse onto the couch as I head for the fridge. After grabbing a water bottle I lock the door, then cross the living room and open the sliding door. The air is about as hot and thick as I always imagined a sauna would be, and it smells like fried fat, and not in a good way. I smell way worse though.

Peeling off my sweaty gym shirt and tossing it in the general direction of a chair, I plop into the free space on my couch, gulping water. I drop my phone into my lap.

Rita Bennett.

That was a seriously fucked up night. Fucked up week, actually.

I was taken off hookers— temporarily, anyway —after some asshole John followed me around a corner as I was heading home. I'd seen him a few times leering around, but somehow I didn't notice him until he grabbed me from behind, wrenched me around and slammed me against the wall. In a second his hand was crushing my throat, the other making its way down my shirt. Sometimes I still think about that second of blind fucking terror, how everything I knew about... everything suddenly just evaporated, and how every microsecond of that moment seemed to fill every fiber of my being. His disgusting breath. His sweaty hands groping for skin,_ my _skin. My heart hammering in my ears as he crushed the breath from me. He was shirtless and sweaty and high out of his mind, telling me if I resisted he was going to kill me, and my gun was tucked in the small of my back, and I could feel it there as he pressed me against the wall, totally useless. And then somehow I got a hold of myself, spotted something shiny on his nipple. My fingers slid off his arm automatically, sought the loop. The next second he let me go, fell to his knees howling like a dying dog. I kicked his chin up hard with my knee, and he dropped like a stone. Before pulling out my cuffs I gave him such a hard kick in the nuts I doubt he'll ever be able to reproduce. Then I rolled him over and handcuffed him. Caught my breath. Called dispatch. It was only later I found out that they never actually found his nipple; that I'd ripped the fucker straight off and it was forgotten in the alley. Probably eaten by rats.

Three days of paid leave later, I was tossed a domestic dispute call. I'm still not really sure why. Maybe they were thinking of pulling me out of Vice, putting me back into general rotation, or maybe they were considering moving me to Sex Crimes, I don't know. I took it anyway.

It was fucking awful, worse than the flaccid pricks who eye us up on street corners.

When I walked up to the stoop, the door was open, and the house was a mess: tables and chairs tipped over, broken glass, broken dishware, broken lamps. Blood. Screaming. Crying. It took me half a second to realize I was hearing children.

I called for back up as I went in with my gun drawn, followed the noises to the bedroom, where I found a tall guy with his back to me, high as a kite and raging, though I don't even remember what the fuck he was saying because my heart was beating so hard. He was holding a bat. Rita was cowering there, standing between her and her two kids, split lip, fucked up eye, torn shirt. When she saw me behind her husband's back, the look that flashed across her face crushed my heart to the bottom of my shoes. I don't ever want to see that kind of desperation on another person's face. Not ever.

If those kids hadn't been standing there, I might've fucking shot the bastard. Instead I told him to freeze. At first he didn't obey me, but the sound of the hammer cocking seemed to pierce his druggy haze, and for the briefest of seconds we made eye contact before he dropped the bat and sank to his knees on my order. Violence was etched all over his eyes, his jaw, the veins throbbing in his neck. I didn't cuff him until I heard sirens approaching outside, though I refuse to acknowledge that he scared me (even if...).

I stayed on Vice. I fucking hate Vice, but I can't volunteer to take those kinds of calls again. Back on patrol I saw a lot of women like Rita, a lot of fucked up, strung out men like Paul, but that night felt different. After it was over, Rita told me in the back of the ambulance that Paul would've killed her, that I'd saved her life, and the certainty with which she said that shook me to the core. I kept asking myself what would've happened if I'd gotten there ten minutes later.

Maybe that's why I keep in touch with her, why I eventually steered her toward my brother. I can never be the kind of friend she needs— I'm just not gentle enough —but maybe Dexter can help her, make her feel less sad, less alone.

I finish off the rest of the water, set it on the table, wander out onto the balcony. The air is slightly less heavy out here, feels more like actual air than warm jello. For a second I listen to traffic, just breathing, still feeling tired and gross from the gym.

I don't like the quiet, the emptiness. It gives me the creeps, like some sort of reverse claustrophobia. I just broke up with someone a couple days ago, and even though I'd been seeing him for all of five minutes, and even though he was awful in bed and had no personality and always smelled sort of like cheese, for some reason I kind of miss him. Is it awful to want him here just to fill the space? Is it awful that that was why I wanted him to begin with?

Shirking the self-exam, I head back inside, reach for my phone on impulse. I speed-dial the first person I think of: Dexter. He blew off Rita but maybe I can convince him to grab a beer with me.

But it rings and rings and rings. Dumps to voicemail.

For half a second I contemplate leaving a message. I open my mouth, but then blow out my breath. "Fuck it," I say to no one, hitting the red button. I can drink alone.

As I get up to grab a beer, I find the remote and flip the TV on. It's been two weeks since the prostitute was chopped into pieces and left for the world to find. News on the case has slowed to nothing, from both the newscasters and the police grapevine. Interest has moved on. The reality is no one ever really gave a shit about the dead girl, just the freaky way she was displayed. And since we're apparently just treading water, there's nothing left to sensationalize.

I skim the channels for her anyway.

Seconds tick by. (_nothing nothing nothing nothing anything but that no no nope no nothing_)

I stop on a sports channel. College football. It keeps my attention for about twenty three seconds before the smell of me becomes suddenly and completely overwhelming. Sniffing myself, I get up, abandoning my unopened beer on the table.

I leave a trail of clothes to my shower, toss my watch onto the bed as I wait for the water to warm up. Standing on the tile, looking in on the general disaster that is my bedroom, I tell myself that I'm going to clean all this shit up when I get out of the shower. That I might as well since I've got fuck all to do tonight. That this is getting ridiculous.

Then I test the water, find it acceptable, climb into the tub.

Thoughts run off with the water. I close my eyes, groaning.

Turn up the heat.

I don't know if I'll actually deal with it. Maybe later.


	3. Paperwork on Old, Cheap Carpet

_Paperwork on Old, Cheap Carpet  
><em>_Setting: before "Dexter"_

* * *

><p>These last two days couldn't possibly get more fun.<p>

You know, unless you shoved a white hot steel beam through my ear and fucked me with it til sunrise.

Sighing loudly, I lean back against the nightstand, feeling my back creak. Through one of the walls I can hear someone actively getting fucked, her loud (fake) passion sounds muffled only slightly by the layer of plaster between us. I've been listening to them for the past ten minutes. I'm starting to wonder if he's actually trying to get her off. For some reason, the thought annoys me.

In theory, I could walk in there right now, ruin his night and toss him into booking. Of course, that would destroy the cover I've had to work so hard to maintain, and, more importantly, I'd have even more paperwork to deal with.

I look down at the floor, at the disaster spread at my feet. I'm absolutely drowning in paper, and I'm just a uniform. Good sweet fuck I don't even want to think what the higher ups on the bust are dealing with right now.

The thought of the bust saps my energy, suddenly and immediately. Considering there's not a single surface in this room that isn't suspect, I opt to just lay down beside the paper, hoping my shirt will protect me from the thousands of STDs that're probably living in the gross, shit brown carpet. I stare upwards, at nothing.

The bust.

Yesterday was the culmination of an enormous sting half the department's been in on for like half an eon. Human trafficking, prostitution, drugs, rape. After knowing about their hidey-hole for years, we finally got someone far enough up the organization's asshole to find some concrete shit on the guys running the ring. With all the resources and the time and the sweat put into the case, almost everyone was sucked into the bust, including me. I was given the pleasure of playing one of the backdrop whores in the club, surrounded by booze I couldn't drink and pervs I couldn't shoot. My task was to work crowd control if (and only _if_) the shit started to fly, but otherwise I was to remain undercover, fake flirting and fake drinking.

I'm not sure whether I'm happy or not that the shit never flew. The arrests by the plainclothes went down smoothly and quickly, the second barrage of uniforms contained virtually everyone. Sure, it was utter chaos in the inside of the club, and between the screaming and the flashing lights and the pounding music I felt like my brain was going to liquidize in my skull and leak out through my eyes, but it was controlled chaos. No bullets fired, no hostages, no chases. Once the high profile guys were filed out, the prostitutes were separated from the crowd and arrested— me right along with them.

I bury my knuckles into my forehead.

Even though the arrest was an act, the rage that flowed up my throat as I was zip tied and tossed in the back of a truck was real. From the way some of the officers looked at me, I know those fucksticks enjoyed it. Like an advanced, graduated form of hazing. I swear to the fucking mother, once I move up and out of Vice I'm going to find a way to fuck them back for this.

After spending the night in holding, I was "released." Yeah, after a night of not sleeping in the world's tiniest skirt, I was dragged into the office for a debriefing, handed an enormous stack of reports to fill out, then taken back to the motel I've been working for the past week.

At least one of the motherless fucks had the decency to send me off with a breakfast burrito and a beer.

I glance at the remains of the aforementioned on the floor by my feet, which have since been joined by two water bottles and a prepackaged salad I bought from a nearby Food Lion several hours ago. It tasted like air... if air tasted like moistened styrofoam.

For whatever reason, it suddenly occurs to me that the sounds of sex from the other room have stopped. I push myself up, settle cross-legged, hoping the peace will keep on going for a little longer.

Of course, the thought barely occurs when I start hearing them again, this time accompanied by a steady drumbeat on the wall.

I glare in the direction of the sounds for awhile, then get up to flip on the TV. It's tuned to infomercials, but after a few channel clicks I end up on the news, and there my finger freezes, my attention caught.

Holy shit.

"_...body was found in a parking lot outside the Copper Motel off Sistrunk Boulevard just a few short hours ago. Police are withholding comment as to any connection to the recent murder of Tami Burgess, but preliminary reports seem to suggest..."_

I zone out, staring at the crime scene beyond the reporter's back. I can just see LaGuerta, whose heel I can still feel up my ass after she threw me off the scene three months ago. The dead prostitute had basically slid off my radar, but now there's another one, another dead girl in a parking lot sectioned into pieces.

I settle on the bed, ignoring the potential health hazard.

I'm not sure why this bothers me as much as it does. After all, this is Miami— there's at least a homicide a day I'm not involved in. I think maybe it's because with her I went beyond the tape. She was the closest I've ever been to a homicide, and jesus do I wish I was on it instead of sitting here in this $36 an hour motel listening to a John fucking a pro, going over in finite detail every iota of a case I'm never gonna end up testifying for.

I glare at the spot over the reporter's shoulder where I had spotted LaGuerta. The few times I've met her she's always had a bug up her ass, though whether it's because of me or because that's just who she is I don't know. She's aware I exist, from both my requests for a transfer and my occasional visits to Dexter in his little forensics cave, and at this point I'm starting to think she'd rather pull her teeth out with a pair of bolt cutters than say anything nice to me.

My impulse, or, rather, my want, is to hop in my car and drive down there to see if I could involve myself, but god knows I've got nothing, and LaGuerta would probably have me banished to the deepest, darkest corner of the precinct if I tried.

Grinding my teeth, I watch the reporter move on to another story— some health code violation in some supermarket. Life moves on.

I look at the reports scattered all over the floor.

Sometimes I feel like a douche for hating the promotion I was handed. A lot of officers would probably be happy to have been bumped out of general patrol and put into undercover work, but, of course, a lot of officers wouldn't be asked to pretend to be and to rub shoulders with whores. It was irritating enough having to take all the little barbs before I traded my uniform and police belt for a mini skirt and a purse. The reality is I don't belong here, and some days I'm almost glad Dad never lived to see my move to Vice. All I've ever wanted for as long as I can remember is to be a cop, and I hate that I feel so ashamed of it right now.

Sliding off the bed, I go to switch the channel again, wanting to hear more about whatever's going on at the Copper Motel. I can listen while I keep on with the paperwork, if anything just to drown out the sounds coming from the pair in the adjoining room.

After finding another news outlet, I go back to the floor (who knows where the remote is), reach for a pen. Click the top. Just stare as the reporter drones on and on about some bullshit story on local transit, waiting.

An opportunity's bound to come along eventually. Maybe not with this case, or with a case any time soon, but... eventually. I'll be at the right place at the right time, and I'll be able to jump to a better ship.

For now there's incident reports. Debriefing. A never-ending stream of Johns.

And Channel 7 News.


	4. The Blue Room

_The Blue Room  
><em>_Setting: before "Dexter"_

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><p>The Blue Room is one of those shitty fucking theme bars— you know, with enormous fake swordfish and tunas on the walls, plastic parrots and lobsters hanging from the ceiling, shark jaws, life rafts, ironic nautical drinks (none of which taste good) —and the whole place smells like stale beer and a memory of cigarettes from back when everyone and their mother was smoking. Just judging from the decor it was built in 1976 and hasn't changed much since, beyond trading the tube TVs for flat screens. But somehow that suits its primary clientele: cops. Everything about the Force seems slow to change, so why not the same for one of the old timers' favorite watering holes?<p>

I never really got the appeal. Then again it's out of the way for me. Maybe two minutes from Miami Metro, but at least thirty from me, and this is hardly the only cop bar in Miami. But tonight I'm not here for me. I'm here for Dad. I've been told he was here at least a few times a week, every week, for like fifteen years. His picture's framed behind the bar, stacked shot glasses in front of his shiny, gold name plate. Every time I come in here everything's always exactly the same, and sometimes I can almost see Dad sitting right there beside me, even though he died long before I could've openly cracked a beer with him.

I check my watch.

Dexter's late again. For a guy's who's so fucking anal, he can be really fucking terrible about being on time.

I take a sip of bourbon, swish the liquid around the ice, which has mostly melted. I'm trying to wait. Trying.

He would've been 76 today. Retired. Maybe in the same house (Dexter and I never would've moved...). I wonder all the time how or if our relationship would've changed if he was still around, if me being a cop would've somehow brought us closer together, given us that one thing in common to finally tie us together. Would he have been disappointed in my appointment to Vice instead of Homicide? That I haven't made Detective yet? Would he have even liked that I became a cop? (He was always trying to keep me out of his life, always trying to shield me from guns and corpses and crime scene photos and violence, but of course I came in contact with all that shit anyway...) I like to think that he would've been proud of me.

I stare at his picture, trying to find an answer in his smile. I still miss him. Mom's a much warmer, more distant memory, but she never lived to see me past sixth grade, and really she never knew me. Dad did.

At least, I think.

I swallow more bourbon, exhaling as the heat rolls up my nose and down my throat.

"Sorry, I know I'm late."

I snap from my thoughts as something large and black briefly enters my field of vision, then disappears. Dexter's shoulder bag. I turn to look at its owner as he gestures at the barkeeper. "What she's having," he says, like it's no big deal, handing him his card.

"Dex," I say, punching him in the shoulder. "What the fuck? I've been sitting here twenty minutes."

"I know, sorry, got tied up."

"Well, you should've fucking untied yourself." I watch as the barkeep sets down a glass for him and fills it with the same golden-brown alcohol that's in my own. Places the card on the wood.

He holds up his hands. "I'm sorry." Gives me that awkward smile.

I feel the irritation drain away, despite myself. "Whatever. You're here at least." I point at his glass. "Pick up your fucking drink."

He obeys.

"To Dad," I say, clinking, then toasting his picture.

"To Harry," Dexter says.

We drink together.

Sometimes I wonder why he never calls him 'Dad.' He knew my father longer than I did, doesn't remember his biological parents. I asked him once, but all he did was sort of stare off for a second and then go "I don't know." I'm afraid to ask again, because I know I'll just get the same annoying non-reply.

I gesture at my drink, which is now empty, muttering, "Another." Magically, more bourbon appears at the end of a silver spout.

"How's it going with Rita?" I ask after the barkeep wanders off to some other patron.

Dexter looks at me as he stuffs his wallet back into his pants. "Good. You know, her kids are great. I think she's adjusting to the whole Paul thing."

His name tweaks some inner heartstring. "He still calling her?"

"Yeah, but she stopped picking up."

"That's something at least." I swivel in my seat to face him, setting my elbow on the bar. "How have you been? You know, it's been forever. I feel like we never get together anymore."

"Well, you know, it's hard. Your hours. My hours." He sips his drink. "But we're together now."

"I just miss you, Dex." I'm definitely a little buzzed. "I miss Dad. Miss my family. I mean, don't you?"

He pauses. "Yeah, of course."

"So fucking pick up the phone sometime." I hit him again.

He leans back. "Alright, okay, stop hitting me."

I sniff-snort, feeling feelings rise up my heart. Shift my hair to one side of my neck. Wait to see if he's gonna ask me anything.

And eventually, "How're you?"

"Oh, you know, peachy," the answer flows out. "Yesterday we made a few busts. My guy had a few ounces of coke on him."

"Oh, that's great."

I just look at him. Clearly he didn't catch my tone.

"Not great?"

"No, it's...fine..." I say the last part into the glass as I take another sip. And it is _fine_, I guess. This time last year I was imagining more would've changed by now. Promotion. Serious boyfriend. Stop smoking. Something. A New Year's resolution made to my Dad's smiling face. But somehow nothing ever got around to changing. I wouldn't say I'm unhappy but...

I set down the glass. "I swear, Dex, this time next year I'll be sitting in Homicide, in one of those little cubicles that your office looks over. You'll be seeing me every fucking day." I point at him. "And one day, I'll be running it, the whole fucking department."

He finishes off his drink. "You know, when you say it like that, I believe you."

I grin, "Fucking better." A thought occurs. "You know, speaking of which, why haven't you gone anywhere? I swear you've been warming the same seat since you left med school."

He gestures at his glass, glancing at the barkeep. "What can I say? I found what I like, I like what I do."

"I know, but..." I adjust in my seat as the guy comes over. "It's a big world out there. In twelve years you haven't had one thought of moving onto something bigger? Better paid?"

He gives me a curious look, as if the thought really has never occurred to him. "Like what?"

"I don't know. Bet there's a lab somewhere you could be running. Or teaching."

"Me?" he snorts. "A teacher?"

I laugh. "Okay, maybe not. But something else, I don't know."

He shrugs. "I don't really want to leave Miami. There's an... endless amount of work to be done here." He smiles to himself, lost in some private thought.

"Fine." I lean on my hand. "Well, can't say I'm not glad you don't want to leave."

"Really?"

My eyebrows pinch. "Well, duh. You're my brother. My family. Been through thick and fucking thin." I take a drink. It's starting to feel a lot warmer, soft and thick and heady. Almost too warm for a summer night. "If you hadn't been around, after Dad I don't know where the fuck I'd be."

"You would've been fine, Deb. You always underestimate yourself."

I smile, "Well, so do you."

A couple minutes pass where we say nothing. I'm still leaning on my hand, content to drift in the pleasant brown haze settling over my thoughts, looking at Dexter but not really looking at him. Just sort of remembering a lot of things all at once.

He was close to finishing out his bachelor's when Dad died, was still living in the house. I was a freshman in high school, entering in on the bottom of the social totem pole. I'm pretty sure I hated everyone on the planet. And I remember the fucking funeral, the flag covered coffin, the sea of uniforms, everyone all made up— way too many clothes for a Miami fall. Mounted officers with their lathered up horses, the then-Lieutenant (now Captain) Mathews and all the other cops I'd sometimes seen around the house all in blue, standing around, solemn and straight. Before they lowered the coffin Mathews took off the flag and slowly folded it into a triangle, and then he walked over and handed it to me. I still have it in a box somewhere, buried, coz I'm honestly too afraid to look at it, too afraid to get rid of it.

A sea of insipid condolences at the wake. Dexter and I, the sole survivors of the Morgan family, sitting around the house in dress clothes, working through the food that people kept dropping off (a thousand fucking casseroles). And then Mathews and a CPS officer showing up a few days later. Dexter was an adult, but I was a minor and they needed to figure out what to do with me. I've never seen Dexter angrier than when they suggested taking me away, maybe sending me up to Mom's sister. He was so shut down when Dad died; I don't think I ever saw him cry, and he was like a statue as he gave his eulogy. But that afternoon all the grief seemed to finally uncork. Stood between me and them, promised he'd always be here to take care of me, that home was with him, that I wasn't going anywhere. I don't think I've ever felt more wanted in my entire life than in that moment, as I sat silent on that old couch. He absolutely wouldn't abandon me, and he never did, even when it got hard. Carried me right on through high school, helped me fill out college applications, helped me move into my dorm, supported me when I graduated with my piece of paper and said all I really wanted was to be a cop.

Through thick and thin, for fucking sure.

"You got quiet," his voice interrupts the mental slideshow.

"I was just thinking," I say. Suddenly remembering my drink, I reach for it and take another sip.

"About?" he prompts.

"Dad's funeral."

"Oh." He glances away.

I set my glass on the bar. "You?"

"Uh, work, mostly."

I don't really want to try to express the weird jumble of feelings all roiling around (I'm not even sure what brought them on, maybe just it being Dad's birthday?). But I want to say something. "Thanks for coming out tonight, Dex," is what I come up with.

"Of course," he says, flashing me another smile.

I clear my throat, swivel and place my other elbow on the bar. "But we're not even close to drunk enough."

"Deb, I—"

"Nope," I cut him off. "No, it's a Friday night. It's Dad's birthday. We're getting _shitfaced._"

When he says nothing I look at him. He already has his 'I want to call it a night face' on and it annoys me. Kind of a lot.

"For _Dad,_" I say, with emphasis. Then I point at his picture, to compound my point.

After a moment of searching my face for an out that I'm not going to give him, he sighs and slumps in surrender. "Okay, alright."

I grin, "Fuckin' A." I raise my glass and clink his half full one, then look up to see that the barkeep is talking to a group of guys I'm pretty sure are cops (one of them looks like Mike from Narcotics maybe, but from this angle it's hard to tell). I drink what's left, then catch Dexter's eye. "By the way, got room on your couch for me tonight? Don't want to pay for the cab to get back to my place."

He sips his drink. "And I'm guessing you'll want a ride back tomorrow too?"

I roll the ice around, smiling at him. "It's almost like you know me."

"Yeah," he exhales softly, taking another sip. But he's smiling.

"So that's a yes?"

"It's a yes."

"Awesome," I bump his shoulder with mine. He makes a gesture to stop his drink from spilling. "Come on, hurry up and finish that. When he comes back next round's on me. And then you're going to feed me some stories from Homicide. You always get the weird ones."

His eyes close slightly in thought, and he nods. "Yeah, I think you'll like the one I got last week."

I notice the bartender shift away from his conversation, and I gesture him over, then slide my glass away from me.

"Finish that," I say again. "And start from the beginning."

* * *

><p><em>AN: If you care about my logic/fanwanking behind this whole "Dexter became Deb's guardian after Harry's death" thing and me changing around her "Mom died when I was 16," feel free to drop a PM or something. The gist of my logic is that if Harry died when Dexter was 21, and Deb was necessarily younger than him, then he must've become her guardian. I'm not sure if this was ever intended canonically but it really affects my head-canon and recontextualizes a lot of things for me (Dexter's whole "never split up" philosophy in 5x02; Deb's less than platonic feelings for him; the fact that whenever Deb felt unstable she always ended up on Dexter's couch— because he is "home" / "safe" to her). Hopefully you're willing to roll with me._


	5. Sweat and Mechanic

_Sweat and Mechanic  
><em>_Setting: before "Dexter"_

* * *

><p>I guess this was inevitable. Finally had to bite the bullet, take it in. The only question now is how long it's gonna take, and if they're gonna ask me to keep it here overnight.<p>

I light up, leaning against a beam. The sun's coming down especially hard today. Hurts to look outside, even through the sunglasses. Not a cloud in sight. Sure half the fucking state is out on the beach right now, soaking in their Vitamin D, laying on towels on the hot sand, watching their kids play in the ocean. Perfect. Idyllic. Meanwhile, I've got no fucking plans for my weekend except a six pack of beer and the gym, and right now I'm just standing outside an auto shop waiting for an estimate, hot as a fuck under a wool blanket (and just as sweaty).

Earlier I left to grab a burrito at a food truck I passed five blocks from here, and I came back after eating it. Ten minutes have passed since then. The mechanic told me they'd probably need another twenty before they could tell me the problem. I think the most annoying thing about this isn't the waiting around so much as the fact that I have the time to wait around. This isn't cutting into my weekend at all.

I blow out a long, slow plume, tap off some ash. As I rejoin the cigarette with my lips, I hear footsteps coming in my direction, and I turn against the beam to see one of the mechanics walk out of the garage. He's feeling around his pocket for something. I watch as he produces a cigarette. "Need a light?" I ask as he sticks it in his mouth.

He grins and takes it out. "Please," he says, walking to me.

I stick mine between my teeth and reach into my purse, smiling back. As I dig around I take a second to glance him over: sweaty shirt sticking to him in all the right places; in-shape but not exactly beefcake-y; five o'clock shadow; decent hair-cut; blueish eyes; at least six foot; no visible tattoos; kind of goofy looking but in a harmless, non-repulsive way.

So far so okay.

Finding my lighter, I gesture him a little closer, then spark the flame to light. I can smell him as he leans in: sweat but also some sort of aftershave. Still okay (and I'm sure he can smell me). I tilt the flame against his cigarette, flick it off when it blooms to life. He exhales away from me, then smiles at me again. "Thanks."

"No problem." He smokes: already something we have in common. "Any news on my car?"

He shrugs. "Your water pump's shot."

I take a drag. "What's that mean for me?" Exhale.

Another shrug. "You'll have to ask Gary, but we can probably have your car back to you before closing. Only takes about an hour but we have a few cars before yours."

Great. "What's it gonna run me?"

"Like... One eighty, maybe?" He blows out smoke. "How long did you wait to bring it in? We could smell the coolant when we turned your engine over."

"Awhile," I adjust my footing and tuck some hair behind an ear. "To be honest, I just didn't want to deal with it."

"Yeah, I can get that." He squints at me in the sunlight. "I'm Sean, by the way." Another Sean. He sticks out a hand. "Sean Yates."

I take it. Firm, but no squeezing. Good sign. Maybe I'll have better luck with this one. "Debra Morgan," I say. "Just Deb."

"Deb," he repeats. "Okay." He's still smiling at me. I know he's done his own visual autopsy on me, and part of me wonders what he's noticed. "You from around here?"

"Yep," I suck off the last bit of the cigarette, then drop the butt, squish it with a heel. "Miami born and raised."

"I'm from Daytona," he says. "Went to college here and just sort of stayed."

"Yeah, a lot of people do." No ring. No ugly jewelry.

"Well, you know what I do, Deb. What about you?"

There I hesitate. Sometimes it weird guys out. But, I mean, fuck him if he cares. "I'm a cop," I say.

"A cop?" he repeats, brows arching. Smoke billows from his nose, then out in a breath. "Wow. That's, well..." he laughs.

Fuck him for leading me to ask, "What?"

"Sexy," he says.

I grin, genuinely, feeling something slide just below my stomach. "Yeah?"

He's mirroring my grin, "Yeah."

I like the feeling. "So you have any plans for dinner tonight, Sean?" I ask.

"I don't know, do I?"

Fuck it, why not? "Yes," I say. "With me. Only..." I pause and lean in, lower my tone, "You're not married, are you?"

He twiddles his left fingers at me. "Nope."

"Great. Can I pick you up with my car?"

"Definitely." Still grinning at me, he glances behind himself, then points toward the door. "I'll go ask how close we are to your estimate. Hang here a sec?"

"Sure," I get off the beam as he drops and grinds his own cigarette, then walk away. My gaze casually roves down his back as he goes.

Definitely okay...

I pull out my phone, wandering away from the shop. Looks like I have several hours to kill now, and I need a ride. After scrolling through a mental list of contacts, I settle on Tim Walsh, one of my old partners from patrol I still occasionally catch a drink with. Unless something's changed he's still partner-less, and he's on duty today. I wouldn't necessarily mind riding around for a few hours. Hell, sometimes I sort of miss that— wearing the uniform instead of the hooker suit, sitting in a car with A/C instead of baking on street corners in heels. And it'd be good to catch up with him.

I decide to raise him through dispatch. When he answers he sounds happy enough to hear from me, so I explain my situation. Within a minute I have a ride and plans to fill my evening.

And as for tonight...

I slip my phone into my purse, turn to look back at the garage.

Sean seems nice enough. Attractive. Employed. A fixer of things. He doesn't smell like cheese. I could do worse. And he's okay with the cop angle, at least for now. He could be the rain on my drought.

Maybe.

As I think this he appears in the doorway. He gestures me over, so I walk to him.

"You're all set," he says, smiling at me (and I return it, reflexively). "Just have some stuff for you to fill out and then you're good to go. Need a cab?"

"No, I got a ride."

"Great," he spreads his arm out, does a slight bow. "After you."

Grinning, I nod, then head inside.


	6. Body Parts in a Swimming Pool

_Body Parts in a Swimming Pool  
><em>_Setting: "Dexter"_

* * *

><p>Sweet holy mother of the baby fucking Jesus.<p>

I freeze, feel my mouth fall open. I'm not entirely sure if the oath left my mouth or stayed inside, and I don't really care, but since the uniform who found the body isn't looking at me it probably didn't.

"Fuck balls," I say, this time definitely aloud.

The other cop glances at me, but I ignore him, stepping forward to look over the edge.

It's just there, right there, in the deepest end of a pool I'm pretty sure hasn't seen water since the mid 80s. Yesterday it had been filled with beer bottles and cigarette butts and wrappers and dirt and fucking dead palm fronds, just years and years of shit, but today it's all cleaned up, good as fucking new, replaced by a long, plastic-covered table.

_And motherfucking body parts._

"Oh christ, fuck me hard, are you fucking seeing this?" My heart is racing.

The cop (he intro'd himself as Carlos Sandoval) glances at me again, then just sort of nods and goes, "Yeah."

Either he doesn't realize what we're seeing or he doesn't care. But, Jesus, I couldn't be more aware of it if you scrawled "First on scene" onto a mallet and fucked me with it.

Of all the fucking motels in all of fucking Miami...

_He chose my motherfucking shitheap of a motel._

I glance around the powder-blue plaster walls, notice another brown-wrapped package on the shallow end, away from the table. It looks like a head.

I try to get a handle on myself. Every nerve in my body is screaming to jump down into that pool and take a closer look, but I keep myself firmly planted. If I make that kind of stupid fuck-up I'll have no chance at all of getting myself onto this team. But I'm here.

I try to stare at everything at once, but I don't know what there is to see. I don't know how much time I have left to find something.

I take a breath.

I had noticed Carlos as I was walking up to start my day. For the last week or so I've been working this motel, the street and a ground floor motel room. In the mornings I've been starting by grabbing something from the vending machine, which was exactly what I was going to do when Carlos stopped me as I tried to pass him. He told me what was going on when I flashed my badge from my purse, said he'd already called Homicide.

It never even occurred to me before just a few seconds ago to expect to find this— another dead girl, cut up into a bunch of pieces. Same guy. Even though I barely saw the first victim, I'll never forget how she was wrapped up in the brown paper, and that wasn't a detail that was ever released to the press.

I walk around the pool, just staring. I don't know what the fuck to look for. Before all I could do was lament that I didn't have the time to come up with any insights. Now I have the time.

_Think, motherfuck._

But all I can seem to see is how pale and dead and bloodless she is. And her head all wrapped up and tossed off to the side, like garbage. Her body is the thing this fuck wants us to see. Her face, her identity, none of that matters. Probably another hooker just out of her twenties. Had the time to get her shit in order, to maybe find a way out. _Had._

On my second circuit around, I stop, right where I started.

It's all so neat and clean, a body on plastic, right in the center of a pay by the hour motel, in a pool. It's almost like some contemporary art piece I don't have the patience or the desire to understand, the message obfuscated by a bunch of symbolic bullshit that only makes sense to the artist. I wonder what Dexter would see if he was the one standing here instead of me, but I can't think of anything. He says he can build a story in reverse, that the blood is like the pages of a book and he just has to flip them backwards, but I don't see anything.

I stare at the thing I'm assuming is the head.

What if she's someone I know? One of the girls I've been sharing street corners with?

"Hey, who the fuck are you?"

I jump. My gaze snaps up, and I turn left to see some creepy ass bald Asian guy walking up to me with a Canon strapped around his neck. He looks really familiar, but my brain just isn't working. Behind him I can see lots of cars pulling up and stopping, and I realize there are a lot more uniforms. I don't see Carlos anywhere.

"This is an active crime scene," he says. He enters within punching distance. (_Wait, I remember him now._) "But if this is what you're into, I—" he stops. "Woah." He squints his eyes, leans toward me. "Debra Morgan?"

"Fuck off and die, Masuka," I say, grimacing at him.

I can feel his gaze rake up and down my bare midriff, catching on the bra string, one of the loops of that fucking uncomfortable thong.

"Jeez, what kind of messed up shit are you into?" he says. "Not that I mind..."

"I'm fucking Vice, you perverted fuck. Undercover."

"I have something else for you to get un—"

"Oh, Officer Morgan, right?" a voice interrupts.

My gaze slips past Dexter's gross lab mate and hits on easily one of my least favorite people on the planet.

Fuck you, you know my name, you miserable bitch.

I bite my tongue. Physically. A sudden flood of nervousness shoots from my stomach, up my core and down my legs. This is my chance.

"What're you doing here, Officer?" Maria LaGuerta asks. Behind her, Detective Angel Batista tosses me a wave. We've met a few times, around the station where Dexter works.

"I've been working this motel, Lieutenant," I say, hoping that neither my hatred of her nor my nervousness over the whole situation is obvious in my voice. "I was first on scene with Officer Sandoval."

"Oh," she nods. "Well, we can take it from here. Don't want to keep you from your Johns."

She begins to walk away, along with the others. Fuck. (_fucking fuckmother cock shit_)

"Wait," the word pops out.

They stop.

"Wait, I can... I was here yesterday. I might be able to help you."

LaGuerta looks at me like I'm a really dead pigeon she found on her doorstep. "Did you see anything?"

I shift, "Well, no, but, I—"

"Then goodbye, Officer."

"Wait," I move in front of them. "I..." Desperately, I just talk, "He cleaned the pool."

She stops. Angel's eying me curiously. I don't even want to follow where Masuka's looking. "Excuse me?"

"The killer," I point at where the body is. "He cleaned the pool. Yesterday this thing was a total mess, just filled with shit, but he cleaned it up, made it all nice and neat and tidy so that when the morning rolled around everyone would be able to see what he did."

"That's... interesting, Officer."

Fuck her, fuck me, she doesn't care at all.

"There aren't any cameras here," I continue. "And if anyone did see anything they're not really gonna be the type to talk to cops, you know?"

She pauses for a moment, then, "Tell you what," she says. "When we need your expertise, we'll be sure to give you a call. Meanwhile, you don't work for my department, so I would appreciate it if you left the homicide to me and stick with your whores, okay, Officer?"

And with that she walks away, taking any possible hope I had with her.

"Nice seeing you, Deb," Angel says, dipping his hat to me before following.

"Harsh," Masuka says. "Well, if you want to—"

"Fuck off," I say, turning on my heel and walking away.

_Fuck._

I don't know if I want to hit someone or cry or shoot myself or shoot LaGuerta or all of the above. First on scene on a case that's only going to keep growing. Third murder means it's a fucking serial killer. If I got on this I'd definitely be able to make the leap to Homicide.

Motherfuck I can feel this slipping through my fingers.

And suddenly I'm at the door to my motel room (_Brandy's motel room_). Grabbing the key from my purse, I unlock it, then slip inside, slam it shut.

"Fuck," I say aloud.

A wave of emotions hits me, a mix of desperation and nerves and pure, unadulterated frustration. Dropping my purse onto the TV armoire, I dig around for my cigarettes. The relief from the hit is temporary, gone in a second, but just the act of it cools me off a little, the breathing. And then, an idea.

Maybe it's not over yet.

I locate my cell in my bag, then hit speed dial. It rings and rings.

"Fuck, Dexter," I mutter. "For once in your life, pick up."

But he doesn't. The answering machine does.

"Dexter, are you there?" I ask, then wait. When there's nothing, I exhale smoke, "Okay, Dex, please, as soon as you get in, uh... I'm at a crime scene by the shithole— the Seven Seas Motel —and I need you here. Okay? Dex? Please. Pretty fucking please with cheese on top."

I end it, toss the phone onto my purse. Take a long pull.

Even if I don't have any fucking ideas, maybe my brother will.


	7. Taking a Shot

_Taking a Shot  
><em>_Setting: "Dexter"_

* * *

><p>I consciously lift my chin as I step out of the elevator, trying very hard to stop my fingers from quivering. A hard mix of nerves and excitement is pounding through my veins, blinding me to everything but my Mission. Normal me would never have walked through the central precinct dressed like a five minute fuck, but I'm banking on Dexter's advice, and I swear to god in this moment I've never wanted anything more in my entire life.<p>

I freeze when I'm almost abreast with the office, suddenly paralyzed. It's true, Mathews is my best bet, to get onto this case and to get into Homicide. I've never gone to him before to ask for a favor because I was never sure how he'd respond to me wanting one (and I still don't), but at this point I'm out of ideas.

_Confidence. I can do this._

I take another step forward, then feel myself falter as I look through the glass.

_Satan fuck me with a pitchfork, LaGuerta._

But before I can decide whether or not to retreat, Mathews' gaze flicks from the uber bitch and lands on me. His brows rise, and he stands. "Debra," he says, gesturing me forward. At the sound of my name, LaGuerta turns to look at me, her own eyebrows plummeting.

"Captain," I say, smiling awkwardly as I go around the glass and step into his office. "Lieutenant."

Now that I'm actually standing here in my Brandy outfit, and he's actually looking at me in his suit and tie, I've never felt more self-conscious in my life, not even when that gangly little fuck Brad McKenzie came to pick me up for prom at my brother's old apartment and that weird flower wreath thing was too big for my wrist and it didn't really match my dress and he asked if I was alone and I said yes because Dexter was out doing research or something...

Swallowing, I force myself back into the moment. LaGuerta's an added obstacle I so didn't fucking need but maybe in the long run it's better she's here. "How are you, sir?"

"I'm great, Debra," he says. "How're you? Please, take a seat."

"Um, I'm good— I'd prefer to stand, sir, if that's okay?" LaGuerta's standing. Fuck me if I'll let her be taller than me.

"Of course," he walks around his desk and leans on the edge. "Maria, this is Debra Morgan. She's Dexter Morgan's sister. Works for Vice."

"We've met," LaGuerta says, flashing me one of her completely fake smiles. It occurs to me that she's probably figured out exactly what I'm doing here.

"So to what do I owe this unexpected visit?" He's not smiling, but then again he's not much of a smiler. Looking at him fills me with a lot of strange, fragmented feelings, a lot of memories. He's the most tangible link to Dad besides Dexter, and somehow that gives me the courage to speak.

"I," I take a breath, "I would like to request to, uh..." I can feel LaGuerta's eyes boring through my head. Clenching my molars together, I just let it go, "Sir, I want to be put on the investigation of the homicide at the Seven Seas Motel. I think my experience in Vice could be of use, especially since I've been working that particular motel for a little over a week now."

"Really?" he says.

"Yes, sir," I say. "I really think I could help."

"Interesting," he leans back.

"Sir," LaGuerta speaks up, "all due respect, but she's Vice. She's not trained to work homicides."

He glances at her. "She went to the Academy just like everyone else. Besides, Homicide's in this girl's bones. Her father was a great friend of mine." He tosses me a small smile, and I feel the bottom drop out of my stomach as something like hope flows hard and fast into it.

"Sir—" she starts.

He cuts through her, "Besides, I think she's right. We haven't been able to get anyone to talk to us at the last two crime scenes. Now that this has officially upgraded to a serial killing we need to work any lead we can find, and her experience undercover may be an asset."

He stands up.

"I'll grant you a temporary assignment to work this," he says, offering me his hand and a smile.

For at least 48 microseconds everything within me freezes, unable to even process what he just said. Then it all hits me at once. "Oh my god," I say, taking it. "I mean, thank you so much, sir. I promise I won't let you down."

"I don't doubt it," he glances at LaGuerta.

Apparently catching his drift, the LT holds out her hand. "Welcome to the team," she says. Her voice is as pained as her smile.

The clear unhappiness on her face fills me with an indescribable amount of pleasure, since barely an hour ago she was brushing me off like a gnat. We shake for about a second before she lets go, then not-so-subtly wipes her hand on her pencil skirt. For the hundredth time I wonder what her problem with me is.

"Well, Debra," Matthews retakes my attention, "as happy as I am to see you, I'm afraid the Lieutenant and I have to finish up what we were doing. But feel free to come back another time."

"Thank you," I say. "Really."

Grinning, I step from the office. LaGuerta follows me, and for a second I think she's going to come into the hall with me, but then she shuts the door on my back. I glance at Matthews as he waves at me through the glass, and I return it, then quickly make my way away.

"Fuckin A," I hiss.

I'm on the case. I finally got my shot.

I catch my reflection on a pane of glass as I pass, and another "fuck" slips out. No more fucking sex suit. There was a time when I was glad to not have to be wearing the uniform, but now I'm looking forward to it. Starting today I'll get to work in blue, in an actual precinct, not a motel room or a set-up in a converted pesticide van.

And LaGuerta had to fucking shake my hand...

I poke the elevator button, bark a laugh.

Matthews may've said temporary assignment, but I'm not planning to return to Vice. I'll find something to make this transfer permanent, even if I have to chug a thousand Red Bulls and pore over every case file a hundred thousand times to do it. No fucking way am I going to let this get away from me.

When the doors open I practically skip into the elevator. Luckily no one else is inside. I stab the 'L.'

"Fuck yes," I say loudly when the doors close.

I get to go home and change. Rub off all the cake on my face, the glitter, the sparkly eye shadow; peel off the fake lashes; can burn these earrings and the bathing suit and _fuck _I get to take off these heels.

Today is the first fucking day of the rest of my life.


	8. The Morgue

_The Morgue  
><em>_Setting: "Dexter"_

* * *

><p>Jesus a lot happened today. This morning doesn't even feel connected to this moment, like it might've been two or three days ago, or like I accidentally stepped into someone else's life. If I wasn't so hyper-aware of every second that's passed since I left Matthews' office, I'd be asking myself how the fuck I even ended up standing here in the morgue on a Friday night just after having spent my evening at the second crime scene of the day. This morning all I was prepared to be was Brandy the Hooker; now suddenly I'm Officer Morgan again. The change was so abrupt I feel like I have whiplash.<p>

I take a breath, kind of craving a cigarette or a beer. Or like... ten beers.

It smells really, truly... off in here, Like death and antiseptic, and since we're all sweaty from a night every bit as hot and muggy as the day, it also smells like at least three different scented deodorants and cologne and sweaty armpits. The air unit hums and rumbles in the background, overhead lighting reflects off a lot of white and a lot of metal; ugly grey tile slopes gently down to the drain in the center of the room.

_Where all the blood and fluids and fucking maggot corpses go when they hose the place down._

I'm the only female in a room of five, and the only officer. While the coroner was arranging the body parts all the guys kept glancing at me, as if expecting me to toss it, or to run, or fuck, I don't know, cry. But as gross as it all was to watch in living color, it surprises me how little any of it registered. I just... stood there, watching as the coroner unwrapped her body parts, weighed and measured them, laid them out, and cut her open. The only thing I reacted to was when he pulled out her guts and cut them open— but, then again, everyone did, because he was literally exposing us to the shit that had been sitting inside a corpse and I'm honestly not sure anything has ever smelled worse and the sound as he squeezed out the contents, like pushing fucking sausages out of a wrapper... (I mean, why the fuck do we care what she ate?)

But I didn't look away, barely blinked. Who knows, maybe I just saw too many of Dad's pictures when he left them lying around for me to find (or to look for, in my endless pursuit of finding some common ground for us to bond over), too many shots from Dexter's gallery. And even now I'm still staring down at her— and really the only thing that bothers me is that she doesn't have her head. This psycho fuck just tossed the last girl's head aside (and she's all laid out a few feet away, covered by a white sheet), but this one... why did he take it? To fuck our chances of giving her back her name? Or because it was somehow amusing? Why the fuck is he doing any of this, and why did he leave the cops two bodies in a single day, after the last two were killed over the span of five months?

And what happened to her? I watched the coroner perform a rape kit (jesus fuck, her pelvis was cut away from her torso and her legs, so he just had to flip it over... fuck I can't imagine anything more violating), and he found spermicide but no sign of rape. So, what, he hired this girl, took her somewhere, and she fucked him so she could buy food tonight, and then she was murdered, drained of blood, chopped up into pieces, and left outside a fucking club. Were these two girls killed at the same time? Did one of them watch the other die, knowing what was about to happen to—?

"How you holding up?"

I jump (_fuck_), "Fuck, what?" I say, looking right.

Angel Batista is standing there, looking at me. "It's okay to be upset."

What, is he looking for a sign of weakness? "I'm just fucking fine, thanks," I say.

"Yeah, I can see that." He smiles, "I gotta say, most of the rookies, their first time in here, they usually get a little woozy."

"Yeah, well, I'm not a fucking rookie," I say. "I've been on the job five years."

"Ooh," he says, holding up his hands. That was the wrong thing to say. This guy was on the force when Dad was alive, and my experience probably seems like nothing to him.

"I'm sorry," I say. "Been a long day."

"Yeah, I, uh, heard some of the guys," he looks at me apologetically. "You know they don't mean it. It's just hazing."

"You mean the part where I'm fucking Matthews to be standing here, or the part where I should offer to fuck the potential witnesses until one of them gives us something?"

He shifts. "All that."

"Yeah..." I trail off into a sigh, craving a smoke again. Ramos, the other detective here, stepped out for one, but I didn't join him because of what I'd overhead him saying before. It's not that I can't handle it, but I think it's only confirming my fear that even when I do move out of Vice it'll still be following me forever, that I'll still look like a joke to all the Real Cops in their suits.

I glance at Lloyd, the coroner. If he heard our exchange then he must not care about it, because he's still sitting there at the desk, prepping his slide, not looking at anything but his little glass disc. I don't know if what he's doing is standard procedure, but part of me thinks he may've noticed the same thing I did— that there was something strange about this latest vic's body (besides the flayed hip).

When I first got on scene I knelt down right beside her, because I noticed she was... steaming. It was the weirdest fucking thing. And when I held my hand over her, I could feel the cold coming off her, like I was putting my hand over a block of ice. I didn't mention it to anyone, just went off to canvas when somebody noticed me and asked me to do it, but the whole autopsy I was wondering if the coroner was going to notice something too, and I think he might have.

I watch as he sticks the slide in his scope, flips on the light. He sniffs before pressing his face into the goggles, then starts messing with the dials. Memories of high school bio intrude— I remember how disappointed Dexter was when I finally told him how boring I thought it was.

"Cell crystallization," he mutters, more to himself than anything.

"What?" I say, forgetting I'm supposed to just be observing.

He ignores me, just keeps fiddling his dials.

I glance at Angel, who is looking at me again.

"I'm gonna catch a smoke," I say. "Be back in a minute."

"Actually," he says, and I stop, "we're pretty much good to go here." He looks at the coroner, "Lloyd, you'll send me the report?"

"Mm hm," he says.

"Great," I say. "Well, then, I guess I'll see you Monday."

I make to move past him, but Angel follows me. "Hey," he says as we step out of the morgue and into the long, white, featureless hallway, "Wanna catch a drink?"

I glance at him, brows furrowing.

"Not like that, I'm married, happily, but your brother mentioned how much you want this transfer, and call me crazy but I think you may have it in you."

At that, I stop. "Really?"

"Yeah," he smiles.

"What makes you think that?"

He shrugs, "I don't know, it's just a feeling. I heard about your conversation with Captain Matthews. Not many officers I know would go up against a lieutenant. You've got balls, Morgan."

I grin, "It did feel pretty fucking good."

"And not many officers I know would volunteer to work a crime scene and watch an autopsy on their own time on their first day. If you do make the leap, I wanna make sure you know that not everyone in this department is an asshole."

I stare at him for a second, grinning, but also a little stunned. All day I've been treated like a pimple that suddenly erupted from the department's ass, and it surprises me that Angel wants to give me an in.

"Well, sure, I— thanks," I say.

He sort of salutes me with his hat, then we start walking down the hall again. We turn the corner into the main lobby area just as Ramos comes in. "Finished?" he says.

"Yeah," Angel replies. "We're getting a drink. Interested?"

He glances at me, obviously have caught the 'we.' "Sure, if you're buying," he says.

He presses a hand to his chest. "First round's on me."

"Well, then let's get the fuck outta here," I say as Ramos reopens the door.

The three of us walk out together, me and two homicide detectives I barely know, possibly (hopefully) future coworkers. As I light up on the way back to my car, I wonder if Angel really meant what he said about me having it in me, and if he's right.

I dig out my keys and hit 'unlock.' Blow a cloud of smoke into the thick air.

Fuck I hope so.


	9. From Theory to Ice Truck

_From Theory to Ice Truck  
><em>_Setting: "Dexter"_

* * *

><p>God, fuck me.<p>

Groaning, I lean back, roll my shoulders and my back. I'm not entirely sure how long I've been hunched over these reports, but it's been awhile.

I let myself fall against the couch, bring up a knee and throw an arm over it, then slide forward until I can put my head onto the seat. Close my eyes.

This is my third day in Homicide. Fifth, I guess, if you count the weekend, but I didn't go in over the weekend, just took a long run in the heat and did some laundry and threw back some beers with my (hopefully soon-to-be ex) coworkers in Vice, swapped some stories. I've become slightly more interesting to the guys in my department now that I might be leaving. Once Mills got deep enough into his scotch he even asked if he could fuck me, to which I kindly suggested that he fuck off and die.

Meanwhile all weekend I was turning over what Dexter said about the whole refrigerated truck thing. I'm not really sure why no one has come up with a theory like this yet— from these reports everyone knew all the prior vics had been frozen in liquid nitrogen, and in Miami he couldn't exactly have thrown their body parts in the backseat of his car if he'd been planning to set up a neat, clean display somewhere. They'd've probably thawed by then, fucked up his car (and there's no way this guy isn't anal as fuck). And I ran through all that shit a thousand times— in the shower, in the gym, in bed, on the toilet —but when it came time yesterday to present the theory to everyone in the meeting room, I just... I couldn't keep it cool, and no one in there gave a shit about what I had to say. And fucking LaGuerta. (_"Oh, Officer Morgan, I didn't recognize you with your clothes on."_) God fuck it to hell, she just sent me right back out to spend the day trolling for a witness who doesn't exist, just to keep me busy long enough for her to tell Matthews that I'm useless and to ship me back to Vice.

It was a miracle she agreed to even let me make copies of these reports to take home with me tonight. Now I just wish I could fucking see something to help me, get some insight, maybe something new to strengthen this whole refrigerated vehicle thing. She wouldn't go for letting me check surveillance around the crime scenes for it, but maybe if I can find something in these reports then someone in there will take me seriously.

Because I can feel the noose tightening. LaGuerta wants me out, and Batista's the only one who's been nice to me. If I make a fool of myself again like I did yesterday, I'll be back out there on the street in my bathing suit and my hooker heels by the end of the week, and LaGuerta will make damn sure I never have another opportunity to get into this department.

Fuck.

Opening my eyes, I reach for and drain the last of my second beer.

And over the weekend I'd had so much hope, convinced myself that this theory of Dexter's would break the case wide open, that I'd be the hero, that I'd get the transfer and a desk in the pen...

Setting the bottle down, I push to my feet and head to the fridge. I need another.

As I open the door, I hear something buzzing, turn to see my phone vibrating on the counter. Hm. Sean maybe? He spent the night Saturday; maybe he wants another rendez-vous.

I grab a beer and shut the door with my foot as I walk to the counter, pick up the phone.

Not Sean. Dexter.

"What's up, brother?" I ask, cradling the phone with my shoulder as I look around for the bottle opener. (Where the fuck is it?)

"We were right," he says, as if continuing a conversation we'd just been having.

(_There._) I walk to my coffee table. "About what?"

"I found the truck."

I stop, grab the phone and reach to set the beer on the counter. "What?"

"I found the truck," he repeats.

He couldn't possibly mean... "Don't you fucking fuck with me, Dexter. What do you mean you found the truck?"

"I mean, I found it, Deb. The truck he's been keeping their body parts in. It's an ice truck."

"Jesus fuck me with a blowtorch." I can feel my heart beating. "Okay, where the fuck are you?"

"I'm on the Old Port Bridge."

I start looking for my keys. "Okay, and where the fuck is the truck?"

"It's gone."

I stop again. "Dexter, if this is you fucking with me, I'm—"

"I'm serious. I... I was out driving, and I noticed an ice truck. I thought it was weird for one to be driving around at this time of night, so I followed it. He drove to this bridge, then turned around and threw a head at my windshield."

I can't actually process what he just said. "You followed— Jesus, Dexter, are you okay? A fucking a head? Like a real head?" A thought occurs. "Oh my god, that fucking headless chick..."

"I'm fine."

Yeah, he sounds like he's reading off the weather report. "Did you see the guy?" I ask.

"No, he had his high beams on."

"A plate?"

"No, it all happened really fast. It's kind of a blur."

"Fuck, of course." I run my fingers through my hair, blow out a breath. "This is fucking huge, Dexter. I can't believe you found the truck. I mean, Jesus... Have you called it in?"

"No, you were the first one I called."

"Call it in. I'll be there as soon as I can. Text me where you are while I find my fucking shoes."

"Okay."

He clicks off.

I pull away my phone, and for a few seconds I just stare at it, running through the conversation we just had. If Dexter had a sense of humor I'd be sure he's fucking with me. Saturday this was an off the cuff theory, and now three days later it's a fact: our killer's roaming around in a fucking meat-mobile. It seems like it's almost too good to be true.

Dexter's text with the location breaks me from my freeze. I head for the couch and grab my shoes, which are lying where I'd kicked them off. Quickly stuff my feet into them. Grab a random shirt off a chair back and slip it on over my tank.

Keys. Wallet. Badge. Gun.

Out the door. Lock it. Down the hall.

My mind is racing.

Jesus christ, if we can dig up any security footage, even without Dexter having seen anything we might be able to see this guy's face, or at the least find a plate and put a BOLO out on the vehicle. _The fucking refrigerated vehicle. _(_The ice truck._)

I'm practically jogging to my car.

I broke this theory yesterday— _yesterday —_and no one listened to me. But as of tonight we know it exists, and if we can find it it'll be the first real fucking lead on this case, and it'll be because of me (and Dexter). At the least we now have the head, and maybe that'll finally get us an ID. Fuckin A, maybe I do have a chance for this transfer. Maybe just maybe I won't die a meter maid, and I'll finally have a chance to make Dad proud.

I hit the unlock button and climb into my car, shut the door, key the engine. My car hums to life, the radio along with it.

Cranking it up, I roll down the windows and back out of my space.

I hope I get there before LaGuerta does, just so I can be there to see the look on her face when she hears Dexter's story.


	10. Sleepless

_Sleepless  
><em>_Setting: "Crocodile"_

* * *

><p>A warm breeze pushes through the curtains, brushing across my bare back like fingertips. I listen to the occasional car pass the building, and, much less distantly, the steady sound of breath. Sean fell asleep fifteen or twenty minutes ago. I wish I could join him, but I still feel too wired, even after we... well, you know.<p>

I sigh.

LaGuerta. Motherfucking cock eating vindictive fucking shitpail. I don't know how I ever convinced myself that me being the one who brought up the ice truck to begin with would change anything. When I asked to help look for it this morning, she gave me this look like I was a two year old she'd been forced to babysit, and she said no and sent me right back out to the motel. At this point I've interviewed everyone who's even remotely associated with the Seven Seas looking for some "eye witness" who "interrupted" the killer, as if it wasn't patently obvious by now to me and half the cops working this case that there is no witness. Even Doakes agreed with me this morning when he overhead me bitching to Batista. Yet she refuses to let me touch any other aspect of the investigation, even when it was my theory that panned out. Hell, from what I can tell she's basically disregarded that I said anything in that briefing— when she talks about the ice truck she only ever mentions Dexter.

It's frustrating as fuck.

I rub my eyes, push back the skin to my temples.

Dexter. LaGuerta gave him the day off today, just as a break from all the death (literally) getting thrown at him. I don't know what possessed him to follow that ice truck, and it kind of scares me that the killer clearly noticed him do it. Dexter may not have seen his face, but that doesn't mean the psycho fuck didn't see his. And why the fuck would he throw her head at his car? Why did he have it sitting in his seat? Was he planning to dump it somewhere when Dexter found him?

My brother doesn't seem to be asking any of these questions. In fact, he seems totally nonplussed about the whole thing. Keeps saying he's fine. I would've gone over today after shift but he insisted it wasn't necessary, that he'd made plans with Rita anyway. Maybe he talks to her, I don't know, but I feel like if it were me I'd be pretty fucked up about the whole thing. I mean, a head? Fucking... frozen solid as Ted Williams, thrown at my car? Even discounting that, the fact that this guy who's murdered at least four women _saw_ me? I feel like I wouldn't be nearly as casual about that as my brother seems.

But then again, that's Dexter. Calm as still waters. If I had a hundred dollars for every time he's shown an emotion I couldn't afford to pay my rent.

I roll onto my back, try to clear my head, but my thoughts keep swirling back.

Tami Burgess. Rachel Lewis. The two Jane Does.

I went to the morgue today as the coroner matched the head to the fourth victim, watched him stick it in a box and take dental x-rays, tuck the negatives into a folder with her case number. We know nothing about these two new dead women except for how they died, but on some level I _know_ them. They're the same women I would hang out with every day undercover. Virtually everything I told those women was a lie (except when it wasn't... a lot of them could relate to the lack of family, the absentee father, dead parents), but some very tiny part of me could appreciate the relationships. Girl bonding and all that crap. But for the most part they were decent human beings who'd ended up in a shitty life that they didn't have the know-how or the strength to get out of. I'm betting that these two Jane Does probably would've told me similar stories if they'd been on one of my streets.

As for the two who do have IDs, we know barely any more. Rachel doesn't have any family— she was a ward of the state until the system puked her out at 18 —and Tami's got a mother in Broward County Jail on drug charges and no known father, a sister living in Charlotte who's working as a waitress and basically cut ties with her family. Two women who were, as far as we could tell, alone in the world when they were taken and cut into pieces. No one to mourn them, or claim their bodies. Their effects will sit in storage forever, and their bodies will stay on ice until the case is closed, then they'll be shipped to potter's field to be forgotten. Or, if not forgotten, remembered just as props in a serial killer's sick-ass fucking displays.

I really want this guy, and not just as a stepping stone into Homicide (though, of course, there is that too). No one deserves to be robbed of a name and a future like that.

I still remember the way Dad would sometimes talk about working homicide, on those rare occasions we did talk. Maybe this is why he worked so hard to try to shield me from all this... darkness, so I wouldn't be kept up at night by it the way I think he was.

But I'm a lot stronger than Dad ever gave me credit for, and I feel at home in the precinct.

Even if I really can't fucking sleep.

I roll over, look at Sean. He's sleeping. The dim, vaguely orange-ish light traces his nose, his brow, the line of his shoulder as it disappears under the blanket. His expression is totally slack: no worries, no nightmares. I want him to share that with me.

I push myself up, brush his hair a little.

"Hey," I whisper, leaning down to his ear. "Wake up."

He makes a grunting sort of sound as I pepper his cheek with kisses, rolls onto his back. I follow his movement, climbing half over him.

"Hey," I find his lips.

"Hmmnnhh," he moans. His eyes open. "What?"

"Wake up," I say. One of my hands slides down his chest as the other anchors me on his pillow. His hand comes up and lands on my back, and I shift so that I'm more on top of him.

"God you're so fucking sexy," he breathes, voice throaty with sleep.

I can feel the tension melt away as his other hand comes up, pulls me closer. I kiss him again, closing my eyes, glad for that crash when he lets me in, just letting it all fucking go.

Because I just want to sleep.


	11. The Phone Rings

_The Phone Rings  
><em>_Setting: "Crocodile"_

* * *

><p><em>AN: Just wanted to thank (acknowledge?) everyone reading, especially anyone taking the time to comment. It's nice to see that there is some interest in Deb for her sake, and hopefully I'm doing her some kind of justice. As I write this I'm about halfway done with s1 (almost to Rudy), so I can say if you are liking this fic/experiment/project/whatever, there's a lot more of it coming, and barring unforeseen problems I should be able to keep making daily updates for... quite awhile._

_Anyway..._

Fuck. What's the...

Fucking cockfuck...

My entire everything feels weighted with lead and stones and fucking... I reach blindly for the nightstand, opening an eye to check the clock. My vision is so bleary it takes a second to read it, then I finally reach the fucking phone and I pull it to me, rolling over.

6:16. The world better fucking be ending.

"Morgan," I say, smashing my palm into my eye.

"Hey, Deb, I wake you up?"

The voice rings some distant bell. "Fuck do you want, Juan?" I ask.

"I'm more interested in what you'll want to do for me," he says.

I keep rubbing. "I'm going to ram a fucking clock down your throat with your fucking balls. Do you know what time it is?"

"Fine, I just figured you'd want to know ASAP."

"Know fucking _what?_"

"That ice truck you asked to look for."

I let my hand slide down my face. "What?"

"Well, I think I found it. Matches the description you gave. 'Miami Chills Ice,' right?"

I sit up, the fog lifting suddenly and immediately. "Motherfucker."

"Nice to hear your move up from beat duty hasn't improved your vocabulary."

"Blow me," I slide to the edge of the bed. "What's your 20?"

"Ocean Drive and 7th Street, on Miami Beach."

"Did you check it out?" I rip open a drawer, grab undies and a bra.

"Yeah," he says. "It's locked, unoccupied. Weird thing is it's still running."

"It's running?" I toss my uniform onto the bed, find a sock on the floor and search for its mate.

"Yeah. I could hear the motor running; the back is cold."

I lift yesterday's shirt, find the sock. "Holy christ on a cracker, that could be it." I hit speaker, set the phone on top of the TV. "How long have you been sitting on it?"

"Like two minutes? I called you right after I checked it out."

"Sit tight." I take off the overlarge shirt I slept in, throw it on the bed. "I will be there in a half hour."

"Ten fo."

I hit the red button, jog naked to my shower, barely wait for it to get warm before hopping in.

I can't believe it. It's been a day. Less than. After spending my morning following up on possible "leads" from chop shops on LaGuerta's goose hunt, on lunch I put the word out with patrol to look for the truck on the streets. Was out until fucking two a.m. myself just roaming around, hoping to maybe get lucky, find it the same way Dexter did.

If this is actually it...

_Mother of tits in a basket._

I scrub myself off quickly, then hop out, towel down, head back into the bedroom. Toss the towel onto the bed along with everything else, grab my clothes and put them on, not quite into my pants as I go back into the bathroom to quickly do my teeth, make-up, pull my hair into a bun. Fuck breakfast; I can pick something up later.

I tear out, so excited I can hardly contain myself. My belt is sitting on a chair, and I wrap it around my waist, clip it on. The weight feels good. My badge and gun are sitting on the counter next to an empty take-out container (need to throw that out... later), and I quickly shove them both in the belt.

Shoes. Keys. Bag. Out the door.

Five minutes later I'm turning onto 95. The freeway's mostly clear at this hour, the sky peach from the sunrise. My thoughts are racing. All I can seem to ask myself is if this is really the truck, because Dexter was right yesterday: this is my golden ticket into Homicide. A theory in the briefing room, sure LaGuerta can ignore it (and she has), but if I found the _actual fucking truck_? She can't ignore that, can't put it on someone else. She had the department chasing it in all the wrong places, but if my hunch pans out then she'll have to fucking see that I can bring something to this investigation.

I floor it. I feel like every turn of the wheels is bringing me that much closer to the transfer, and that much farther away from Vice.

Because if this really is the truck...

(_What if it is the truck?_)

I merge onto 195, alone, flying well above the speed limit. By the time I reach the causeway the sun is reflecting brightly off the ocean. Seagulls are flying around. Already I can see people in boats, taking advantage of their morning— probably a bunch of retirees with nothing but this to do on a Thursday. And then five minutes later I'm cruising by a golf course, lane hopping like an asshole, just wanting to get there.

Juan hasn't called, so nothing's changed. I unclip the radio from my belt, deciding to raise him just to keep myself occupied. "Juan," I say when he radios back. "I'm en route."

"Look for the Colony Hotel," his voice crackles back. "It's one in a stretch of hotels out here. I'm parked outside a Johnny Rockets. If you see me you'll see the truck."

"No movement?"

"No, nothing."

"I'll be there in a minute."

I stuff the radio into a cup holder. Once I pass the golf course I just guess the route to Ocean. The effort of navigating isn't really distracting me from the constant, recurring thought:

(_What if what if what if what_)

I turn onto Ocean, roll by the long stream of green space to my left at a much slower pace. There are already beach goers out, joggers. On the right about a thousand fucking hotels. So many people want to stay beach-side, spend their fucking summer on the beach soaking in the sun and playing volleyball and...

I double-take, almost slamming the breaks as I spot the truck on the other side of the road. My blood pressure spikes, and the whole world seems to narrow down as if I'm looking at it through a funnel.

_Please god let it be the one..._

I reach for my radio. "I see you," I say as I slow, spotting Juan Pierre's cruiser parked opposite the truck.

He flashes his sirens back, and I pull in behind him, kill the engine. Juan meets me at my door as I open it, a grin spread across his face.

"That the truck?" he asks.

"Jesus I hope so," I say, my gaze already stuck to it.

"Listen, Deb," he says, and I glance at him, "I'd love to stick around, but I've gotta get back to patrol."

"No, go," I say. "Thanks for sitting on this for me. I owe you big time for this."

"If only I wasn't married."

I grin, "Fuck off."

He smiles and tosses me a wave, then heads back to his green and white.

I cross the street before he pulls away, my heart pounding hard in my throat. Even though Juan told me the truck was locked, I check the doors anyway, look at the back. True to his word, I can hear the motor running, and the steel is cool under my hand.

I walk around back, look up at the name. _MIAMI CHILLS ICE REFRIGERATED DELIVERY _in big, blue capital letters, just like Dexter said.

_Fuck, this might be it._

I touch the truck again, suddenly wondering— _why_ is it running? If the plan was to hide it in plain sight, was he meaning for it to be found, or is he around here somewhere? How long has it been sitting here? And if he meant for us to find it, did he leave it running because he left something inside?

What if there's another dead woman in there?

Motherfuck. I have to know.

I pull my phone from a pocket, hit speed dial, press it against my ear as I touch the cold steel again.

Dexter answers on the fifth ring.


	12. Fingertips, Fingerprints

_Fingertips, Fingerprints  
><em>_Setting: "Crocodile"_

* * *

><p>Fucking fingertips. I swear to god, I'm not going to be able to eat sausage for at least a month after this.<p>

"So, Morgan, what's your deal? You into this kind of shit?"

I glance up from the fingertips to meet Masuka's eyes, but his gaze is still trained downward. He's carefully rolling the fingertip with the orange nail polish around with a pair of tweezers, staring through a magnifying lens. I'm not sure what the fuck he's looking for.

"I'm not into any kind of shit," I say, looking away again.

"Then why are you hanging around?"

"Coz I've got nothing better to do," I say. And it's true— LaGuerta hasn't giving me any assignments, and as far as I know the only lead we have is currently being manipulated around by this bald little freak, so for me all there is to do is wait. All the other cops are currently working the Ricky Simmons case, but since I don't have an invitation to that particular party, I'm just standing here. Watched the ice melt. Watched Masuka call in a bunch of techs to take the water for testing. Now watching him turn the fingertips around and around, just waiting for him to finally print the goddamn things so I can try to get an ID.

A fifth victim. None of the last four were missing fingertips.

Jesus he's escalating fast.

"When are you going to print the goddamn things?" I ask.

"Patience, Morgan," he says, still not looking at me. "You sure you're related to Poindexter?"

"We're not," I shift against the shelf I've been leaning against for the past... I check my watch: hour and a half. "Dexter's my foster brother. Didn't you know that?"

This time he looks at me. "No. He's always said you're his sister."

I pause at that little tidbit, taken aback. How could that not have come up? Or does Dexter just not make the distinction?

"So if you're not actually related..." he continues, looking back down at his tweezers, "Then he wouldn't mind if we were to—"

"I would rather fuck an unlubricated cactus," I say.

"Hey, you say that now, but Vince Masuka grows on people."

"So does athlete's foot."

At that he grins.

"I swear to fuck if you're drawing this out..."

"Please," he rolls the finger away like a mini hot dog on a baking pan, exchanges it for the purple one. "If you're planning to join us in the big leagues you should know that we do everything by the books here, cover everything in painstaking detail, leave no stone unturned. Nothing," he gestures at his eyes, "gets past these."

"That why you still have chocolate on your shirt?"

He glances down. "Ahh, what the fuck? I already changed my shirt once today."

I snort, recross my arms.

Sighing, he looks back down through his lens.

I glance around the precinct. I'm not really sure where Dexter went— he wandered off ten minutes into Masuka thawing the ice block. LaGuerta's sitting in her office with the doors closed. Batista and Doakes are talking at the sergeant's desk, heads over a file. Yale and Soderquist are out at a suicide. Not sure what everyone else is doing; I haven't interacted much with most of the non-detectives yet, mainly because they keep looking at me like an intruder. Then again all I can fucking think about is how badly I want this transfer, and, after that, my silver shield. I also know that those younger guys are the source of the continuing rumor that I'm fucking Matthews for this, and it kind of annoys me, so at least for now I'm fine with keeping my distance.

I look back down at the fingertips. Despite LaGuerta's hissy at the crime scene, I think me finding the ice truck may've finally cooled her off a little. If I hadn't found it we'd still be chasing ghosts, and this case would've probably remained dead in the water until another body turns up, and I think she knows it. Maybe that's why she didn't object when I stuck around to watch the truck get dismantled and to watch Masuka deal with the fingertips. She still hates my guts (and I likewise) but the fact that it's okay for me to be standing here instead of out as far away from Miami Metro as possible feels like progress.

Unless she's in there plotting some way to write me up over me putting out an informal BOLO over dispatch (because I sure as fuck didn't have the authority to make that request)...

I glance at her office again. And for some reason I find myself asking, "Do you know why LaGuerta's got such an enormous cockroach up her ass over me?"

Masuka gaze flicks up from the fingers. "No."

"Is she like this with everyone?"

He shrugs, "She likes to be in control of everything."

"So, what, I'm too unpredictable for her?"

Another shrug. "I don't know."

"Fountain of fucking information..." I mutter.

"You do come on a little strong," he says.

I glare at him. "That coming from you? Go fuck off."

"Please, you think she would've hired me?" He sits up from his hunch, rolls his shoulders. "If I hadn't been in this department for the last eight years, she would've ripped me out by the roots. And here you are rolling in like a steam engine."

I meet his eyes. "Jeez, fuck off twice."

He squints at me, leans forward. "Just tell me... Are you really whacking off Matthews?"

I get off the shelf. "Eat shit and die. I'm gonna go get a fucking coffee."

"Wait," he says, and I stop before I've really gone anywhere. "I'm ready to print."

"Fucking finally," I settle back against the shelf.

He grabs some glass plate thing from below his desk, plugs it into his computer, clicks his mouse around as a blue light on the plate comes on. Interest caught, I walk around to him, look down as he grabs one of the fingertips and presses it against a white oval on the plate. After a second an image appears on his monitor, and he hits a key, then does the same thing again for another finger. I watch with ambivalence— on the one hand, it's kind of amazing, but on the other, I don't know why the fuck he didn't just do this first before checking out every individual molecule of the fingers.

"You gonna run them?" I ask.

"Well, yeah," he says.

"Can you show me how?"

He glances back at me. "Sure." He almost sounds surprised.

Fifteen minutes of image uploading and database selection and AFIS scanning later, Masuka says exactly what I was hoping for: "We've got a hit."

I lean onto his desk, looking at his screen.

"God, come a little closer."

"Focus," I say.

He double clicks on something,opens up a window. "Sherry Taylor," he reads. "Arrested on drug possession in 2003, drunk and disorderly in 2002. Couple busts for prostitution."

"Another hooker," I say. I look at her picture. Even with the smirk and the lines under her eyes and the obviously bleached hair, she still looks pretty, and in this really familiar sort of way. Something about that smirk reminds me of a few of the girls I used to work with...

I wonder if she painted her fingernails, or if our psycho fuck did it for her. Was she alive when he chopped them off?

I curl my own fingers reflexively. "This is great," I say. "Can you print this off for me?"

"Sure," Masuka says and hits a couple keys. The printer at his elbow whirs to life. I watch as it slowly pukes out the paper.

_We found this girl because of me._

Once it's done, he grabs the sheets, carefully rearranges them into a straight stack, then hands them to me.

"Thanks," I say, walking off, flipping through the information. Her incident reports aren't terribly interesting, nothing original. She never served any hard time, just community service. She was 23. Way too fucking young.

I stop in front of Batista's desk. He's back sitting there. Doakes is gone.

"What've you got there?" his voice attracts my attention.

I flip the page down, see that he's looking at me and my papers. "An ID on our latest vic," I say. "The fingers in the ice truck."

"Yeah?" he holds his hand out.

"Mm," I nod, hand them to him.

" 'Sherry Taylor,' " he reads. "Well, at least that's one less Jane Doe."

"Yeah," I say. "Weird that he'd leave us the fingertips. Any other body part besides the head and we couldn't have made an ID."

"You think it was intentional?" he asks.

I shrug. "You ask me, this is all some fucked up message. He left us that truck knowing we were going to find it— that's why it's so clean. I don't know what this fuck he's trying to say, but clearly he doesn't care about keeping his victims anonymous."

"What's that tell you?"

I cross my arms, "That he knows there's nothing in the vics' lives to tie him to them. I'm betting even if we turned over every fucking stone in their lives he'd never come up. He was a one hour fuck, only they ended up dead."

He grins at me.

"What?"

"You sound like a cop."

"Fuck off," I say, but I grin too.

"This is good work, Morgan," he hands me back the papers. "This won't go unnoticed."

"Thanks." I can feel my smile fade. Was it enough? Or will LaGuerta still punt me out of Homicide at the next opportunity?

"Hey," he gets up. "I know the lieutenant's been giving you a hard time, but you've been doing solid police work. Your theory is the first real break we've had in five months."

I search his face, "You mean that?"

"Yeah," he smiles and pats my shoulder.

That makes me feel slightly better, even as I glance back at LaGuerta's office. I hope he's right. I really, really hope he's right. "So what now?" I ask.

"Well, Doakes and I have to follow up on the Simmons case, but why don't you run our victim through the DMV, see if you can find any next of kin." He pauses. "You okay to make a notification? It's okay to say no."

The thought dries my mouth a little. "No," I say. "No, I mean, yes, I'm fine. I can do that."

"If you find anyone, don't contact them until I get back. I'll help you through it."

"Yeah, okay, thanks." I recross my arms. It hadn't occurred to me that with the ID might come a notification. Our other known vics were pretty much alone in the world, but Sherry could've had family.

What the fuck do you even say to that? _'Hey, we found your daughter's fingertips in a fucking block of ice in the back of a truck. Just her fingertips, we don't know where the rest of her is. Yet. Hopefully.'_

(_Fuck._)

"You should feel proud," Batista calls me back. He's putting on his hat. "I'll be back in an hour. Take a break, grab a taco or something."

"Yeah, okay."

He waves and heads off. I watch him go, then stare down at the papers in my hands.

Sherry Taylor. My first ID.

I hope I don't let her down... for both our sakes.


	13. Notification

_Notification_

_Setting: "Crocodile"_

* * *

><p>I drop the phone into its cradle, then just sort of slump into my fingers, closing my eyes.<p>

That was... well, fucking horrible.

It didn't take much digging to locate Sherry Taylor's next of kin: her mother's name was on the bail records. All it took was a DMV search and then I had a name and address in Jacksonville. Batista was there to hold my hand yesterday when I called her, but all I got was her machine. I spent the rest of my shift sitting at the empty desk in the pen, wondering if she was going to call back, trying to plan out what I was going to say when she did. According to Masuka, Sherry's definitely dead, and I swear to fuck I must've planned out a hundred ways to tell her that along with the fact that we've only recovered her fingertips and have no idea where the rest of her is, but the phone never rang.  
>Until now. When they called up to say I had a phone call and I picked it up and I was being asked if I was the 'Officer Morgan who left a message yesterday about my daughter,' all the responses I'd planned out evaporated, and of course Batista had gone on lunch, so it was just me. But it wouldn't have mattered anyway even if I had remembered one of my scripts: I was not prepared for that conversation. I'd been expecting a similar story to our other two vics, to a lot of the girls I met through Vice— estrangement, a family with a drug problem, maybe a mother who used to turn tricks herself —but Michelle Davis sounded like a perfectly well-adjusted woman over the phone, the kind of chick you'd meet on line at Starbucks and have a conversation with about the humidity, and her silence after I relayed my news carved a rift into my soul (<em>"I'm really sorry to tell you that your daughter is dead<em>...).

And then she started fucking talking. Filled in all the blanks that the rap sheets left open.

Sherry was a college drop-out. Got into booze and drugs after her parents divorced, and halfway through her second semester she dropped everything to follow a deadbeat boyfriend down to Miami. The mother has no idea what happened with the boyfriend except that one year later Sherry was working as a stripper and the boyfriend was gone. After that, contact between them gradually ceased. She didn't even know Sherry was a prostitute (fuck me, should I have told her?), hasn't seen her daughter in three years. She asked about burial plans and I didn't have the first fucking clue what to tell her. Even if we'd had her body I wouldn't have known, but the fact that I had to tell her we only had pieces of her... small pieces of her...

Christ mother fuck. (_how much ash would they even give her if she wanted to cremate?_)

They don't cover this shit at the Academy, or anywhere. And fuck, that pause, like she was waiting for me to tell her it was a joke or something, or like she was searching for a response. I told her I'd call if we made any progress (_if we find the rest of her..._) but I really don't know if it should be me who calls her when or if we know any more.

"What's a matter with you?"

I let my hand fall, look up to see Batista.

Something inside me snaps, all that helpless I felt in that conversation converted instantly into hatred toward this fucker standing right in front of me, with his stupid fucking hat.

"Where the fuck were you?" I ask, standing up.

As his eyebrows arch I remember that I'm just a nobody here on tenuous invitation, and so far he's been my only ally.

"Her fucking mother called," I add before he can say anything. "Sherry Taylor."

His brows relax, reform into something more sympathetic. "When?"

"After you left," I say.

"I'm sorry," he says. "You alright?"

"Am _I _alright?" I repeat. "She wanted to fucking see her daughter again, and I had to tell her we don't have her body." I sink back into my seat. "And if we do end up finding her, who's to say she won't be all cut up like our other vics? We can't show her that."

He sits in the chair by the desk. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked you to make that notification."

"I can handle it," I say.

He studies me. "It can be tough for all of us, even for the cops who've made a hundred calls like that. There's no shame in that."

"Yeah, well, I'm fine." I force a small smile to my face.

"Okay, you're fine," he says. "And you're past time for your lunch. Go and take your break, and when you come back you can help with an interview."

"I'm not hungry," I say. "What interview?"

"Morgan—" he cuts himself off "Deb, take your break. I won't start without you."

I search his face for a second, though I don't really know for what. "Why are you being so nice to me?"

"What can I say? The department needs another pretty face." He pauses, grins, "You know, besides mine."

I smile, reach over and push his hat down his face. "Fuck off."

He adjusts it. "We got a possible hit on the woman in the pool. A pro called in a missing persons report, said it might be her friend Cassandra. Soderquist ran our vics' photos down there and she said it could be the pool vic, so she's coming in to view the body."

I almost feel like he might be fucking with me. "And you're inviting me?"

"Yeah. You're on this, and, frankly, with everyone working the Simmons case I could use a partner."

I lean back. "No shit..."

He stands. "Go."

"Alright," I throw my hands up in defeat, then push out of my chair. I can hear him settling into his desk as I head for the elevator. Just before I exit the pen I glance back to see if Dexter's back from his own lunch (maybe I could talk to him?), but I don't see him behind his blinds, so I keep on going, stab the elevator button.

Bits and pieces of the conversation I just had bounce around my thoughts as I wait: the grief in Michelle Davis' voice, the lame-ass words that kept falling out of my mouth. I didn't know what to say.

I'm not really a stranger to grief. Mom... she was sick a long time, and even though I was young I still knew somewhere deep down that I was going to lose her. Maybe it was just the way people talked about her, the way Dad looked at her, the way my teachers would look at me, but I think somehow even when she was alive I was grieving her. And after she died everything was always unbalanced— I don't think Dad was really prepared to be a single parent. Sometimes it seemed like he couldn't even fucking look at me, especially those months right after Mom died, maybe because it was too painful. I have her eyes, her hair, her lips, grew up to be just a little taller. I think maybe he never got over losing her, and that's why that void in our family never seemed to fill, why he always kept his distance from me.

And then he died too, not even that long after Mom.

I wonder what it must be like for Michelle Davis, to have gotten used to living with that void where her daughter used to be, and then out of the blue one day she checks her messages and there's a call from the Miami PD. Divorced, no other kids. I wonder if she's been grieving her daughter for years, and if that's why she didn't cry. Maybe like me she'd come to expect the eventuality, had run through the scenario so many times that when it finally arrived she didn't feel anything but numb as all that expectation was drained away, replaced by that hard, icy reality.

I remember when Dad told me Mom was gone. I remember walking into Dad's room and finding an empty bed, having a nurse tell me that he'd had a second attack a half hour ago and they couldn't save him. I was the one who told Dexter.

Delivering that kind of news again... Knowing the kind of destruction I'm creating...

I pause, suddenly falling back to reality. At some point I went from standing in the station to clicking the unlock on my car. I only dimly remember pulling out of my keys.

I open my door, slide inside, toss my purse onto a seat. It's stuffy and smells vaguely like cigarettes and yesterday's take-out. There's something comforting about it. I slam the door, refocus my energy on keying the engine, fiddling with the air conditioning.

I don't like thinking about all that stuff. My parents died a long time ago. The grief crawled inside, faded slowly, gradually melted into the background of my life. That conversation hurt a lot more than I thought it would...

I stop as I pull into reverse, re-settle the stick back into park, ease off the break.

After a second's hesitation I reach into my bag, find my phone. Dial.

He answers just as I'm thinking it might go to voice mail.

"Hey, babe. What's up?"

I don't know. "Hey, I'm on lunch. Want to meet up?" The want spills out as I feel it.

"Now?" I can hear his breath hit the receiver.

"Yeah," I say. I shift in my seat. Dexter rescheduled dinner for tomorrow (some issue with Rita finding a sitter), and I was planning on meeting up with Sean tonight anyway. But as I sit here I can feel this ache in my chest, that empty space inside crying for something to fill it, for a relief.

"Uh, yeah, sure, alright," he says. "Want me to meet you somewhere?"

"My place," I say. His auto shop is near there. I'm not but I can get there. "Twenty minutes."

"I'll see you there."

"Great."

He clicks off. I flip the phone shut, toss it into the cup holder.

Quickie on my break. Kind of makes me feel like I am the person those assholes in there keep suggesting I am, that I'm weak, and maybe I shouldn't have made that call; should've just gone to lunch and maybe eaten outside on a picnic bench or something, cleared my head, but the reality is the quiet's never done it for me. It only would've made it worse.

And it's too late. I already called.

And I fucking _want_ to.

I shift out of park, twist to check behind myself. Back out.


	14. Sex

_Sex  
><em>_Setting: "Crocodile"_

* * *

><p>We've been lying here for at least nine minutes. Even with the AC and the blankets kicked down to our feet it's just hot, and we're both slippery with sweat, and I'm sure his sweat is getting into my hair but it doesn't really matter because we still have...

I shift my arm against his skin, look at my watch— the only thing I'm still wearing. We've got an hour and ten before we have to leave.

We still have time to shower. Finally having that dinner Dexter's been insisting on. I haven't seen Rita in a couple months. Haven't had dinner at an actual restaurant in awhile either. Sean and I mostly order in, and I can't remember the last time I bothered to go to a sit down place alone.

"When do we have to go?" Sean asks, his hand traveling up my shoulder and settling there. His breath puffs into my hair.

"We've got time," I exhale.

It's so hot. When I kiss his skin all I taste is salt. But now that it's over all my thoughts are swirling back. Today. Yesterday. This whole week. I mean, what the fuck?

We got a name for the pool vic. The hooker who came in yesterday made the ID. That was really fucking weird, how the coroner folded the sheet back just enough that if you didn't look that hard you couldn't tell her head wasn't connected to her body. The first thing she said was "Jeez, she's so pale." And she was— milky white, from the liquid nitrogen. And while she was staring down at the head she said it was her friend Cassie Mendoza, and she kept on staring, like she was looking at a piece of a particularly grisly roadkill. I wonder how well or how long she knew her. Were they friends, or did they just share a street corner?

Four out of five IDed. How are we not any closer to a suspect?

"What'cha thinking about?" Sean's started stroking my hair.

"This case."

"The ice truck guy?" he says.

It's weird that that's becoming his moniker. This guy's the "ice truck killer" now. He got that name from my theory, my lead. "Yeah," I say. I start running my finger down his ribs, tracing little circles. "Even though we've gotten almost all his victims IDed we're no closer to catching this fuck. I mean, he chopped off her fucking fingertips..." I stop, lay my hand flat. Stare at it. "You should've seen it— fucking frozen in a block of ice, all spread out. Like this." I hold my hand up. Every nail a different color.

"That's messed up," he says.

"And fucking LaGuerta. Sending me out to interview the guy who's truck was stolen, interviewing the hookers who knew one of our vics." Cassie. We have no idea who Sherry ran with. Batista took care of the notification while I was out chatting up the pros. "Anyone with half a fucking brain would know he's just taunting us, that we're not gonna find anything by looking at his victims. I mean, he threw a fucking head at my brother."

"Hey," he says. He pulls on my shoulder, and I roll over.

"What?" I say.

"Nothing. You're just so damn pretty."

I smile on reflex, but my head still isn't here. He shifts up, draws me up with him. For a second we kiss. For a second the thoughts go away. But then...

"But why fucking fingertips?" I pull away. "What could that possibly mean?" And the nail polish?

"I dunno," he pulls me back, this time slightly more forcefully. No talking. He doesn't want talking. Why am I even talking about this?

I close my eyes. Sometimes it seems like this is the only thing I really understand, the only thing I'm really good at. Sweat and saliva and kissing and touching and his fingers pressing into my bare back, squishing me against his chest. He's so fucking attractive. It makes me feel attractive, wanted, useful.

He flips me over, climbs on top of me. I reach up to kiss him, pull him back down. We just did this but it doesn't even matter.

Part of me's still thinking about those damn body parts though. So fucking pale and white and dead, laid out on plastic sheets. A whole life reduced to props in a serial killer's display. And those fingertips...

I force myself to refocus. What the fuck am I doing?

I don't want him on top of me. I force him to roll onto his back again, arch backwards for a moment as I straddle him. "You're so fucking pretty," he moans, staring up at me.

"So're you," I murmur, falling back down.


	15. Leaving Vice

_Leaving Vice  
><em>_Setting: "Crocodile"_

* * *

><p>I still can't fucking believe it. This is all I've wanted for so goddamn long. It was starting to feel like I'd never get it, like I'd end up right back here, yet...<p>

"Morgan."

I stop just as I'm heading into my (old) cubicle. My (ex) cube mate is walking over, coffee in one hand, stirry stick in another. Vincent Lorenzo. Not that I really have anything against the guy but fucking hell am I glad I won't be seeing him again, at least in a professional capacity.

I'm so excited to tell him I can hardly contain myself. He's only the second person I'll get to tell. Dexter had disappeared from his office by the time I left LaGuerta's, and Sean's not picking up the phone. So far I've only gotten to tell Batista. (I mean, Doakes heard but I don't think he really cared...)

I'm grinning so much it's actually starting to hurt my face.

"What's up with you?" Lorenzo asks. He slips by me, sets his cup on his desk. "Finally back from your assignment?"

"No," I say. "Guess what?"

He plops into his chair. "What?"

I dig my fingers under my belt. "I fucking got the bump. I am out of this shithole."

He stares at me. After a second he goes, "What?"

"Yeah. I know." I rock on my heels. "Couldn't fucking believe it either, but I was just told."

He leans back. "Jeez, congratulations."

"Fuckin A," I say. "Working this ice truck fucker case. Caught a lead. Next thing I know, Matthews is handing me the reassignment."

"Yeah, I've caught some of the news off the grapevine." He stirs his coffee around. "You were the one who found the ice truck, right?"

"Yeah," I say.

I hear the sound of wheels on carpet, then turn as something hits my leg.

"So you're leaving us?" Lucas says. It was his knee that hit me. When I look up I can see that our conversation has started attracting the attention of other cops. Mills, Lucas' partner, has rolled out just behind him.

"Yeah," I say. "I've had enough of you motherless fucks. Just got my transfer to Homicide."

"Then what're you doing here?" Mills asks.

"I just came to pick up my fucking snow globe," I say. And to tell everyone. Not that I truly feel close to any of the cops in this room, but I have shared a department with them for two years and I know these guys. I want them all to know that I'm more than just a pair of legs. That my ambition was more than just blowing hot air.

"Always knew you had it in you, Morgan," Lorenzo says.

"You did?" Lucas says.

"I didn't." I turn to see Boyd. Both his arms are hanging lazily off the walls to my cubicle. I grin, but not nicely. I fucking hate his guts. He was the one who zip-tied me the night of the big raid, frog-marched me to the van. I've met some pricks, but Boyd's a fucking cactus.

"I heard you were fucking Matthews," he says, now that I'm looking at him. "And now here you are, prancing in with your shiny new transfer."

I step forward, closer to his face. "I earned this transfer, fucknut."

He grins at me meanly. "How does the Captain like it? On your knees or your back?"

I feel that old anger, but this time this guy doesn't hold any actual authority over me. As of today we work for different departments. I take another step closer. The words bubble up my throat, "Fuck off and die, asshole. You may've gotten your shield because your dad's buddies with the Commissioner, but you're such an impotent, ignorant, untalented waste of fucking air that even if you let half the brass blow their loads down your throat for the next two decades you still would never climb out of this pen."

He glares at me. I glare back. He's treated me like shit ever since I rejected one of his drunken advances two weeks into my move to Vice, and it only got worse after they started putting me out in the sex suit. His rank and his relationship with the brass was the only the only thing keeping my mouth shut, but now as I look at him I don't feel threatened anymore.

"Come on," Simon, Boyd's partner, appears at his elbow. "Not worth it."

"Fucking whore," he mutters as his parting words, then allows himself to be led away.

I flip him the bird. When I glance back a whole bunch of the guys are staring at me.

"They loan you a set of balls at Homicide?" Mills asks.

"I hear LaGuerta's got two to spare," Lucas adds.

LaGuerta, I snort. The fact that she was the one who had to give me the promotion is still funny when I think about it.

"Blow me," I say to them, then reach down to grab the few things I bothered to bring here. Pens, pencils, pencil holder, paperclips. A snow globe my mother bought for me at Key West a year before she died (or a sand globe, I guess; it rains white, glittery sand, not snow). Some random make-up, papers, ibuprofen, a mug, couple pictures. I spent so much time on the streets or in motel rooms I never really moved into this cube. Even when I was desk-bound I never truly felt at home here: I was constantly searching for something that would get me out of this department, from pretty much the moment I realized what being undercover in Vice meant for me.

As I'm standing here it seems unreal. My whole professional life has changed in an instant, but everything here looks exactly the same. Lorenzo's still wearing one of the six shirts he seems to own. Lucas and Mills are still bonded at the hip. Boyd's still a misogynist cocksucker. And I'm going to leave and never come back.

"Hope you find what you're looking for in Homicide," Lorenzo says after I've shoved all my shit into my bag and am checking drawers.

"Yeah, me too," I say. Finding nothing except a gum wrapper, I shut the drawer and turn to him. "Thanks for putting up with me."

"Hey, you were a unique cube-mate when you were here," he says. "And for the record I don't think anyone here actually believes you're sleeping with Matthews. People just like to talk, you know?"

I shrug. "In a week no one's gonna give a shit anymore. But thanks."

He nods, pushes out of his chair, then holds out his hand. "Nice working with you, Morgan."

I take it, "Right back at you."

A few of the guys clap as I make my way out of the pen, and I wave to them as I go: Mills, Lucas, Hanson, Stewart, Vaughn, Barber, Shultz, the two Rodriguez-es (who are not related). The lieutenant's not in his office, so I guess I'll have to talk to him later. He'll probably be glad to see me go, honestly.

I hit the elevator button. Take one last look into the hall as I walk inside and wait for the doors to shut. And then they shut.

And with that, it's over. I'm no longer a Vice cop.

When they open again I head for my car, slipping on my aviators as I exit the building, spinning my keys around my finger. Everything in my world feels wonderfully light, all the frustrations and the stress lifting with the knowledge that I finally got the transfer. Tomorrow I get to start ditching my uniform again, but this time I'm trading it for a suit, not a g-string, like a real fucking cop. And I can finally start working toward earning my shield.

I open my door, let the heat flow out for a second. It's at least ninety degrees out here, and since I didn't find shade to park under my car's probably as hot as the surface of the Sun right now.

As I lean against the hot steel, I decide to pull out my phone, try Sean again. He hasn't been picking up today, but tonight drinks are non-negotiable.

The phone rings two times, then stops. It sounds like it either dropped or he picked up but isn't saying anything. "Hello?" I say. "Sean?"

"Hello?" I hear back. But it's not Sean. It's a woman's voice. "Who's this?" she asks.

"Deb." I shift, feeling... well, something in my midsection. "Who's this?"

"Sean's wife."

The words are like a knife to my gut. "What?" I say.

"I'm Patricia Yates, Sean's wife." Somehow I can tell she and I are having similar feelings. "Who're you?"

"Fuck me," I whisper.

"What?"

"Are you fucking with me?" I ask, though I know she isn't.

What the fuck.

"Me?" she says. Now there's anger in her voice. "Are you the whore who's been sleeping with my husband?"

"I..." I don't even know what to do. I've been cheated on before but I've never been the other woman. "Fuck balls," I say, flipping my phone shut.

For a moment I just stand there against the car, staring off into the parking lot, feeling the sun beating down, feeling the steel burn into my skin. Almost three weeks and I never fucking noticed, but now it all makes sense. Why we always met at my place and never his, why he usually didn't spend the night, why he'd never take a phone call in the same room with me.

_Because that motherfucker is married. _(For how long? Jesus, does he have kids?)

I abruptly get into my car, slam the door, toss the phone and my bag onto the passenger seat, turn over the engine, crank up the A/C.

And of all the fucking days to find out.

The shining light of my reassignment feels all but snuffed out as I drive back home, thoughts lost in a swirling mix of hurt and betrayal and guilt and anger. It pisses me off that he took this from me, that he had to be an asshole. Not that our relationship has really been much outside the bedroom. I'm never really that interested in talking. He never has much to talk about. But then again, of course he wouldn't, because he's been hiding half his life from me.

Jesus Christ, do I know how to pick them.

My phone rings in my hand just as I'm unlocking the door to my apartment. Swinging it open, I trade the keys for the phone, then glance at the caller ID.

Sean.

I want to hear him admit that he's married, that he's a lying, cheating bastard. An hour ago all I'd wanted was to celebrate with him, get drunk with him, have...

Setting my jaw, I flip the phone open, press it against my ear.

"You've got two minutes, asshole."


	16. New Clothes

_New Clothes  
><em>_Setting: "Popping Cherry"_

* * *

><p>I don't really enjoy shopping.<p>

I have this vague memory of going out and raiding the sales rack with my mother, but Dad would've traded an hour at the mall for a unanesthetized root canal any day of the week. Honestly I think he used to just hand me or Dex his credit card and give us a limit, say he'd be back in two hours. Dexter would wander one way; I'd wander another. A year or so after he died I got a job so I wouldn't be suckling off Dexter's money and Dad's pension, but even when it was my money and my time to spend I never really learned to appreciate the whole shopping experience. Clothes are clothes. Shoes are shoes. I swear I've had this same pair of aviators for three years now.

I take them off, pop them into their case, then toss them into my purse, which I drop beside the plastic bags I just put down. Then I plop onto my bed beside the blazer I once bought for court, exhaling. After a second I reach down for my boots and unzip them, then let them fall off my feet.

It's not that I didn't have "professional clothes." I did. I do. On those days when I wasn't playing dress up, I'd go to work in a suit. But when I searched through my closet last night for something appropriate for a funeral, it occurred to me that I need more blouses, more pants, more blazers, a new pair of boots, because before I just didn't wear them often enough to need a lot of them. So after the funeral I headed into town to supplement my wardrobe.

So much Halloween stuff... so many people digging through sales racks with sweaty armpits and carts and cell phones... and me with my basket in my fucking court clothes, grabbing anything and everything that looked suit-ish. I went to a couple stores. Every time I looked in the mirror I kept imagining myself walking into Homicide in whatever I was wearing, sitting down at my new desk, chewing the fat with my new coworkers.

New coworkers. And a _desk._ My fucking desk.

I grin, staring up at my ceiling. Yesterday was my first official day as a homicide cop. Nothing had really changed with the ice truck killer case (and still nothing has changed), but everything else seemed changed to me. I was given the empty desk I've been using the last few days. I got to put my stuff all over it, then set up my new account records for the computer, fill out a lot of paperwork and meet with my old Vice lieutenant (fun). I went out for drinks with a few of the guys later, but not for long or very late. I'd've taken it personally, what with it being a Friday night, but half the Force went to Ricky Simmons' funeral today, so I guess I just picked a bad time to get the reassignment.

I still can't fucking believe I got the reassignment. If it wasn't for that immediate sucker punch from Sean I'd question if this wasn't all a dream...

Sean... I exhale. Thankfully he hasn't called since yesterday morning. He left a message I didn't listen to before I deleted it. The only comfort I'm taking is that his wife knows, so by now I'm sure he's been moved to a motel room or some friend's couch, alone after having destroyed both the relationships he was juggling (not that we really _had_ much of a relationship...).

But I'm done thinking about him. He's out of my life.

I roll off the bed, decide to hang up the stuff I bought before I forget and they end up lying here all day.

I have the whole rest of the weekend to myself, but I sure as shit don't have any ideas. These last few weeks the ice truck investigation's been consuming all my off-time in an effort to land the transfer. Now that I have it I don't feel any less motivated, but there's still nothing new. I've got all the reports stacked in my living room, but I know I'm not going to find anything in them no matter how much I stare at them. There's no pattern to these girls beyond their profession, and he didn't leave anything incriminating in that ice truck because he wanted us to find it. At this point all there is to do is wait for another body to turn up.

I pull out of the new shoes, find a place for them on the floor, shove the box back in the bag.

And that's just messed up. Who knows how many more girls this fuck's gonna kill before he makes a mistake. It pisses me off that we're all basically just attendants to this cocksucker's twisted art pieces. Who are these bodies even intended for? Him? If they were, would he really be leaving them out to be found? But if he's directing them at us, the police, then why? It's not like he's chopping off everything but their middle fingers or leaving their asses exposed. There's not even anything particularly sexualized about the victims, beyond the fact that they were hookers. Is he only killing hookers because it's convenient, because he can easily get them to come with him to his kill room? Because if that's true than the identities of these women really won't make a difference, because when he picked them up it wasn't any different to him than picking out canvas at an art supply store. All that really seems to matter is that they're white, female, and dead.

Which means we'd have a fuck of a time preventing it if (when) he decides to kill again.

I slip the last shirt onto a hanger, then crumple the bags and head for the kitchen to put them in the garbage can. When I pull the thing out from under the sink all I see inside is crumpled tin foil and beer bottles and one of those plastic to go containers from whatever it was I picked up the other night.

Pathetic.

I stuff the bags in, then head to my couch and collapse onto it. Maybe after sunset I'll drive down to the gym, run a few miles, work up a sweat, then go and get... I don't know, something fried. Then when I come home I can take a long bath and go to bed early. I still have no idea about Sunday, but, hey, who knows, maybe I'll do that whole thing again tomorrow, just trade some of the cardio for weights.

But for now TV (I should find another book...).

And maybe a cigarette or three.

I need a life.


	17. Another Body in Butcher Paper

_Another Body in Butcher Paper  
><em>_Setting: "Popping Cherry"_

* * *

><p>I knew her.<p>

The thought keeps recurring as I make my way out of the arena, my footsteps echoing weirdly off the shiny vinyl flooring. I shove another mini chocolate doughnut into my mouth, wave at an officer as I pass him.

I knew her and it bothers me. It was fucked up enough seeing strangers all chopped up and wrapped in butcher paper, but when I recognized her face it was like a shot to the stomach. All pale and cold and dismembered and dead. Cherry. Sherry Taylor.

How the fuck didn't I recognize her? I must not have really looked at her picture. I need to see it again. She was blonde in the mug that AFIS turned up, I remember that. And plumper. Maybe along with the hair dye she had work done, lost weight. But it's still fucked up that I never recognized her. A few weeks ago I saw her every day, and we'd chat about random things: men, money, expectations, the weather. Jesus, it was her fingertips in the back of that van. And it was her mother I talked to. That was her history. I remember she used to talk about the divorce and how it fucked everything up for her, how she put her faith in a boy who turned out to be a lying, cheating douchebag who beat on her and stole her money shortly after she followed him to Miami. But I never even thought of Cherry while I was talking to Michelle Davis. Never occurred to me that we were talking about a person we both knew.

I'm going to have to call her again. I'm going to have to tell her we found the rest of her daughter (Jesus, I hope she doesn't still want to see her). Should I tell her I knew her?

No. No, that wouldn't be appropriate. I don't have anything to offer her. Cherry was a tough girl but she was just like pretty much everyone else on that corner: stuck, with no real plan to get out of the life. If her mom asked me how Sherry and I knew I each other I wouldn't even know what to say.

(_"Oh, I'm a former Vice officer. Your daughter was one of the prostitutes who I used to use as camouflage..."_)

I shove the last doughnut into my mouth, open the door. Immediately there are voices calling out to me, and for a second I freeze in the entrance, seeing a sea of reporters directly between me and where I left my car.

"_Officer, can you tell us anything about what's inside?" "Is this the Ice Truck Killer?" "Where is Lieutenant LaGuerta?" "Is it true there's a body on the ice?"_

I swallow the doughnut before I've really chewed it. The lump is hard in my throat as it goes down, but at least I can manage a few 'No comments' as I walk toward and under the tape cordoning them from the arena. No one follows me to my car. Maybe they sense I'm too low ranking to be able to feed them anything (as if I would if I could anyway...).

I get into my car, slam the door. I want to get away from the circus before it starts. Once LaGuerta comes out she'll end up making a statement, and I'd rather not hear it. It was obvious that the credit to finding the ice truck was going to go to LaGuerta— I'm not naive enough to think someone with my rank and standing would get the recognition in the media —but it still annoys me the way she talks about the Ice Truck Killer on camera, and I'm not really interested in hearing how she's going to talk about Sherry Taylor once she comes out (my find, my ID).

(_my friend_)

I drive out of the parking lot.

I don't know if Cherry was ever really a friend. None of those girls could've been, at least not truly, since I was a liar myself, and I was spying on them. But on some level I did _know_ her. Under different conditions, if life hadn't fucked her, I don't know, maybe we could've bonded in a real way. She was a nice person. Funny.

I wonder what happened to her, and when, and why. What made this guy go after her? Why her out of all the other girls who had probably been standing there (Shanda, Raquelle, Candice, Gabrielle, Bridgette, Mia...), or was she just the first one unlucky enough to make eye contact?

And when did he take her? Jesus, if I hadn't gotten myself onto this investigation, would I have been on that street corner right with Sherry? What if he'd chosen me? I would've ended up busting him for Johning. How ridiculous would that've been? (Not that I could've known...)

(_or something worse could've happened)_

I head for 95. If I had to guess where I'll find my contacts, I'm going with somewhere in south Allapattah. I could call someone in Vice, but there's no guarantee they would know, since I was the only one stationed with this group, and besides which I'm still trying to put distance between me and my old department. I only just got this transfer.

My first official homicide call.

And then there's the missing night watchman, Tony Tucci. His disappearance is suspicious but not in the way LaGuerta thinks. There's no way the guy's a viable suspect. It's too obvious. The Ice Truck Killer's been absolutely meticulous, never leaves a trace. Dumping a body in his own place of employment and then bolting? Yeah right. Not this guy. Like Cherry and all these other girls, Tucci was probably just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and it's only a matter of time before another body turns up.

No, I'd lay even money the only people alive who might've seen him are Shanda and Raquelle's little band. Sherry was one of their flock, and if he took her off a street corner then those girls were nearby. If one of them actually saw his face it could be a big break for us.

And fuck but I'd love to come back with something that big, just to prove right out of the gate that the instincts that got me this reassignment weren't just a fluke, that I'll bring value to this department. Maybe then LaGuerta will finally cut me some slack.

And that would be great, because I'm really getting sick of hearing her cheeks clench whenever I come into the room.


	18. Cactus

_Cactus  
><em>_Setting: "Popping Cherry"_

* * *

><p>Ah, perfect. Weak as shit coffee. Nice round off to a fucked up day.<p>

I head back to my desk. It's just about shift end and a lot of the guys have already taken off. The big raid on Tucci's place is tomorrow morning, and for the cops who are on this investigation there's nothing to do until then. Not that there couldn't be something else. LaGuerta was completely uninterested in what I got from my contacts this morning. We haven't even searched the guy's place yet and already she's convinced we've got the guy.

It's annoying.

I sit down and close the initial report on the hockey area scene. The results of the autopsy on Sherry Taylor will be in tomorrow. Last I heard she was still in processing. The thought of Cherry's body parts being passed around like loaves of bread or something is disturbing. I can't say I knew her well enough to feel any real grief for her, but I guess it's like learning someone you used to work with got in a car accident and died. It's hard to marry those two disparate images of the same person.

I take another sip of crappy coffee. I wonder if whoever made this just didn't bother changing out the filter.

"We're heading home," Batista says, coming to a stop by my desk. Doakes is with him. "You going soon?"

I set down the cup. "Few minutes, yeah."

Doakes nods as he looks at me, then his gaze slips down to my desk and his brows crinkle. "What the hell is that?"

I look down at Dexter's random gift. The cactus. I'm not really sure what made him think of me when he saw it. Maybe it was a gift with purchase and he needed someone to pawn it off on. "It's Masuka's new dildo," I say. "I'm holding it for him."

Both of them snort. "Smart-ass," Doakes says.

"What've you been working on over here?" Batista asks.

"Tucci. You know I met with my old hooker contacts this afternoon? They told me they saw Cherry— Sherry Taylor, getting into a station wagon with wood paneling. But according to the DMV, Tucci doesn't even own a vehicle."

"Still working the theory that he was abducted?" Batista asks.

"Or worse," I say.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Morgan," Doakes says. "Wait until we see what the search turns up."

"Yeah, you'll have to tell me," I lean back, unable to hide the bitterness creeping into my tone. "LaGuerta's desked me during the raid, just in case we get any 'tips.' "

"Hm," he grunts. He's the only one around here who truly seems to like LaGuerta, even though out of everyone here he has the most legitimate reason to hate her. Two or three days into me starting here he told me he was her old partner until she got her promotion, and I can't help but wonder how he feels about that. I remember hearing the buzz about that big bust they made because it was a big deal for Narcotics too, and Narcotics and Vice are the biggest buttbudies out of all the departments in the MDPD. There was a lot of speculation that LaGuerta's role in the investigation had been overblown, and that she hadn't necessarily earned her promotion. Luck and political hard balling got her that office even though Doakes had been slated for it.

Yet he'll always defend her. Maybe he sees a different side to her or something, I don't know.

"Come on," I say. "I can't be the only one here who thinks that Tucci as the Ice Truck Killer is ridiculous? There's no way he'd leave a body at his place of employment and then flee. He's way too fucking smart for that."

"Or maybe he's just getting arrogant," Doakes says.

I shake my head. "No, this wouldn't be arrogant. It'd be retarded. We weren't on scene five minutes before his name came up. If this guy wanted to be identified he would've done something a lot splashier, not stick a chick in home goal and flee the city."

He shifts. "Yeah, I admit I don't like Tucci for this either."

"See? Same fucking page. Batista?"

The other detective shrugs. "I would be surprised if he didn't turn out to be a victim."

"So I'm not crazy." I glance behind them, at LaGuerta's office. She's not there: left fifteen minutes ago. "Then why is LaGuerta gunning so hard for this guy?"

"Matthews has been pressuring her to find a suspect," Batista says. "Five victims that we know of in five months, and not a single suspect? I mean, we haven't had so much as a blip on our radar until today."

"Doesn't it matter to her that she's totally off base on this one?"

"I'll remind you we still haven't searched his place," Doakes says. "We may not have anything on him, but we don't have anything to exonerate him either."

"Fine," I throw up my hands. "I just hope that when we don't find anything tomorrow LaGuerta'll be willing to hear other ideas."

He fixes me with his sour glare. "Do you have any idea how many station wagons there are in Miami?"

I point at my computer, which has the answer but I'm not about to dig for it for some smart-ass reply. "A fuckton and a half, but Tucci's not registered as owning one."

He continues with the skunk eye. "Doesn't mean he didn't steal one."

"Then we can focus on stolen station wagons."

"What if it belonged to one of his victims? He could've taken it from our last Jane Doe."

"Then we'll comb through surveillance cams near the crime scenes, crack down on getting her ID, hold a fucking séance, I don't know." I take another sip of the shitty coffee, suddenly remembering it's there.

He shakes his head. "You have a fucking answer to everything."

I grin at him, "I know I'm right about this."

He searches my face for a second, then exhales. "Was I ever this fucking green, Angel?"

Batista grins. "I always assumed you were born with a shield pinned to your dick."

Now he gets the look. "I'm going home."

"Okay," he's still grinning. "See you tomorrow."

"Night," I call after him as he stalks away, goes through the door to the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator.

"I think he's warming up to you," Batista says to me.

"Just hold on while I brush the ice off my shirt," I say, then finish off the coffee. The last swallow just tastes like... gross water basically. I make a face and put it down.

"Still, reserve judgment until the facts are in," he says. "The story fits the evidence, not the other way around."

Something sarcastic springs up my throat, but I swallow it. "I'd be happy to be wrong," I say instead.

"For our sakes, I hope you are." He adjusts his hat. "And with that, I'm going home too. Want to share the elevator?"

"No," I say. "I'm gonna wash this out," I waggle the mug, "finish up here first."

"Then I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yep," I get up, still holding the mug. For a moment I watch him walk away, then I head for the sink.

Batista's right: I shouldn't be making any assumptions. But I can feel this one in my gut, and I don't need to wait for the raid to know that Tucci's a victim, not a killer. It wouldn't surprise me at all if the boys knocked down the door and found his body in the kitchen with his throat slit.

That would make for a shitty, tasteless time for an I-told-you-so, but at this point I just want LaGuerta to have to concede to me, at least once.

I give my mug a quick rinse.

I guess we'll see tomorrow. For now I've got dinner to pick up and beer waiting for me in the fridge.

And... I glance back at my desk. Apparently a cactus to find a home for.


	19. Chain of Command

_Chain of Command  
><em>_Setting: "Popping Cherry"_

* * *

><p>I blow out smoke, falling back against the concrete. This alley is one of the most pointless, claustrophobic areas I've ever seen— only just too far apart for me to be able to touch both walls between the buildings at once —which is probably why no one's ever out here, but it's the best place for a smoke break if you don't want anyone to see you.<p>

And right now I don't.

(_"Your father never would've pulled the kind of shit you just did..."_)

Right for the fucking jugular. I can't remember the last time I felt so ashamed of myself, and even despite it I still don't feel like I was in the wrong. I shouldn't have gone to Matthews with the tape. I knew it wasn't the right call, that it was a major breech of the command structure, but I didn't know what else to do. LaGuerta hasn't been willing to listen to a single word I've had to say on this investigation. She's gearing up to pour half the department's manpower into tracking someone who's likely already dead, permanently fucking his memory, and probably fucking us too once the real Ice Truck Killer surfaces again. Yes, it's just a look off camera and a statement from a hooker; anyone could brush them off. But even without them it's stunningly obvious that Tucci isn't our guy. Why would he leave a tape of him setting up the body just lying around his house? Why would he choose to dump her in a way that left him so open to suspicion? His crime scenes are so meticulous that he's gotta be a massive control freak, and nothing about the fallout from Sherry's crime scene has been neat or controlled. Unless it is, because he's framing Tucci in order to draw us further off the right track, just to jerk us around even more.

Successfully.

I take another drag.

I was wanting to tell all this to Matthews. I was hoping he would want to hear my theory. But it was a stupid thing to do. I let myself believe that he'd cut me some slack since we have so much history, and since he already did me a favor in getting me into this department to begin with, but instead I probably just added weight to LaGuerta's insistence that I don't have enough experience to work Homicide.

So my only option is to what then? Sit around and keep my mouth shut as LaGuerta wastes our time and energy on Tucci? She hasn't even bothered giving me an individual assignment on the manhunt. My directions are basically to help man the tip lines once they go live.

Maybe if I asked Batista to talk to her... or maybe if I got Doakes on board...

No. I can't keep skulking around, and I can't keep trying to subvert her. I'll have to carry out her bullshit assignment, prove I can be a team player and that I can take directions. I don't know how much damage I did today, but I need to make sure LaGuerta doesn't get any more ammunition.

I take one last, long pull, drop the cig and grind it out.

Then I turn and grab the door.

Matthews is passing through the hall as I come in. Before I can decide how to arrange my face he's giving me a nod. "Debra," he says, then keeps on walking.

"Sir," I say.

For a second I just stand here, not entirely sure if I read anything in that tone. He looks pleased about something, but whatever it is it's probably got nothing to do with me. He doesn't seem angry, so that's a good sign. I think.

Feeling marginally insecure, I make my way back to the pen. LaGuerta's door is shut and she's busy scribbling away at her desk. After a beat I walk over to Batista's desk. "What's going on?" I ask him.

"LaGuerta's going ahead with her press conference and her manhunt," Batista says. "Apparently she got Jeb Bush to sign off on it."

"Shit is she gonna have egg on her face," I mutter.

"You show her the tape?" he asks.

"No, not yet," I say. "Might try my luck in a minute though." I glance back toward her office. "What do you think? Right after she cancels her press conference do you think she'd toss in a blow job?"

He grins, "Yeah, that sounds about right."

I walk back to my desk, look at down at the VHS (who even uses VHS anymore?). I know all this is gonna earn me is a boot print on my ass, but I can't help myself. I have to try. Matthews expects me to follow chain of command on this, and if I don't at least present my case it'll bother me for weeks.

Exhaling, I pick up the tape, head for LaGuerta's office. Deciding to just bite the bullet, I don't allow myself to hesitate before knocking. I see her look up through the glass, and an expression flickers across her face that I can only interpret as exasperation. But she waves me in.

"Yes, Officer Morgan?" she says. She always has to emphasize my rank. But I guess it's better than this morning's 'Miss Morgan.'

"I wanted to talk to you about Tucci," I say, walking in. "I think—"

"Officer, all due respect, but you're new to Homicide." She folds her hands on her blotter.

"That doesn't mean—" I try again.

"So forgive me if I don't put a lot of stock in your opinion. There are a lot of cops working this case. You want to tell me why I should elevate your theory?"

"Maybe because I have evidence." I waggle the VHS, trying to keep a firm lid on the anger brewing in my chest.

"What's that?"

"The tape you found in Tucci's house," I say.

"How could that possibly help your case?"

"If you'd be willing to watch it again with me I can show you."

She studies me for a second. I don't know what she's thinking or what she's looking for, but it annoys me that she refuses to even consider what I have to say.

"Fine," she says finally, and to my immense surprise.

I blink. "Really?"

"Yeah," she says. "Present your evidence."

Feeling slightly stunned, I stutter, "Yeah, okay, I'll go get the TV."

"I'll be here."

I quickly leave the office, trying to process what she just said.

"Well?" Batista asks from his desk.

I look at him, "She's willing to see the tape again, That's something, right?"

He shrugs.

I go for the TV, which is still sitting where I left it.

I don't know what the hell just happened but I'm not looking a gift horse in the mouth. If she's willing to at least listen to me, that's something.

Now the bigger problem is getting her to believe me.

Setting the VHS on top of the player, I grab the stand and start wheeling it out.


	20. Whore

_Whore  
><em>_Setting: "Popping Cherry"_

* * *

><p>Fuck do I not miss this. The humidity, the clash of at least six different boomboxes, the smell of roast chicken and smog and marijuana and urine. The tension is constant, and it feels heavier than I remember it. The last time I was out here at this hour I was dressed as a prostitute, which in some ways made me invisible. Ironically enough, in my normal clothes I'm a lot more exposed, and everyone here has definitely noticed the bulge of my piece under my hoodie. I don't know how obvious I am, but at the least it's probably clear that I'm not here for the same reason everyone else is.<p>

Though if I'm honest, I'm not sure what I'm doing here. I know the likelihood of me running across the station wagon is about on par with me winning the lotto, but I couldn't just sit at home. After a day of taking calls from random whackjobs, I want to feel like I'm actually doing something. I knew LaGuerta's "I'll think about it" yesterday was her way of saying fuck off, but until I saw the press conference this morning I guess I'd been holding onto a shred of hope that she might actually have listened to me...

I don't know why I let myself get so naive.

This is the last place outside of the crime scene where we know the Ice Truck Killer was. I know I won't find a witness besides Gabrielle, and I know there aren't any cams, and I know in my heart that he won't be coming back, but I'm here anyway. Sheer luck got me the ice truck. Maybe the bitch'll smile on me again, even though this time I know I can't call patrol in. It was one thing to look for an ice truck, but to look for a wood paneled station wagon is far too vague an order. Hell, I already found one and it was just a couple old folks inside.

And yet, and yet...

I keep walking deeper up 17th Ave, past the dollar store and the San Lorenzo Food Market, past a bunch of hookers and potheads and Johns. The scene is familiar in a way I wish it wasn't. I wonder how Dad would've felt knowing how much time I spent on this street and streets just like it.

I don't see anyone I know though. I'm not sure where Raquelle's little group is. Maybe the news about Cher spooked them and the girls decided to move to some other corner, I don't know. I hope for their sakes that some of them decided to flee. Maybe it could even be a catalyst to get them out of the life. They could take a chance that Cherry never got, finally pursue one of the plans they're always talking about. I'd like them to go for more selfish reasons: I just don't particularly want to recognize anyone else who's been killed, sectioned into pieces, and displayed for all of Miami to see.

I stop at an intersection as a car passes, then start forward again. The sound of footsteps behind me draws me out of my thoughts, and before my foot's even touched the opposite pavement there's suddenly a hand on my arm.

I whirl, wrench my elbow away. A "What the fuck?" falls out of my mouth.

"Hey," the guy says. He's so close I can smell his breath, and it smells like a dumpster full of dog shit and dead animals. "How much?"

I step away from him. "Fuck off."

He moves in front of me, and I stop again. He looks sort of familiar: one of the Johns who was always hanging around the area, I think.

"I know you," he says. "You're one of Raquelle's whores. How much?"

"Would you like to get arrested? Get the fuck out of my way." I shove past him. I make it about five steps before he grabs my arm again, wrenches me around.

"I'm not going to ask again, bitch."

I forcefully reclaim my arm. Before I can decide whether to pull out my badge or my gun, a new voice calls out:

"Hey, you heard her, fuck off."

I glance back to see Shanda walking toward me from what looks like an apartment complex up the street.

The John looks from me to her, then mumbles something and shoves past me. I watch him walk away as Shanda comes to a stop beside me.

"What're you doing out here, Brandy?" she asks, her gaze flicking from the John's retreating back to me.

"I told you, my name's Debra," I say. "And I'm fine."

"Debra," she says. "And you didn't look fine. Lucky I was here to rescue you."

"The only person you were rescuing was him." I point.

"Right, coz you're a cop."

"That's right." I start walking again.

"That what you're doing here?" She follows me. "Looking to bust up some more motherfuckers looking for somewhere to stick it?"

"No. I've got much bigger fish to fry."

She pauses, then comes back into step with me. "You really think that ice truck psycho's gonna come back here?"

I shrug. "I don't know. Do you remember anything more about him?"

She shakes her head. "No. Gabby's the one who saw Cherry get into the car with him, not me."

"Great," I say, continuing to scan for station wagons, but of course there's still nothing.

She's silent for a second, then, "You know, even if he's not out here tonight, this isn't really any place for a ninety pound white chick to be wandering around by herself."

"I can take care of myself," I say.

"Yeah, so can the rest of us, until we can't."

"Most of you aren't cops."

"Wasn't there just some cop who got himself killed by gangbangers and thrown off the causeway? That badge's not some magic shield, chica."

I stop. "That was a completely different situation," I say.

"You're still as human as the rest of us," she pokes my shoulder in emphasis. "You told us to leave town yet here you are, walking down this shitty fucking street in the middle of the night hoping to find a serial killer. If that's not crazy I don't know what is."

I'm starting to get annoyed (maybe because she's right), "If it's crazy for me to be here, then why haven't you left?"

She shrugs. "I got a kid to feed. I got _me_ to feed. As long as that piece of shit's around I just won't get into any station wagons, you know?"

I don't know.

"Come on, chica," she continues, "you've got a life outside this shithole, unlike the rest of us. Let me walk you back to your car."

"I don't fucking need a escort," I say.

"Then I'll keep you company," she says. "Tell you what? I'll keep an eye out myself, ask the girls to do the same. If we see any station wagons we'll give you a call. You got any cards or whatever?"

I just stare at her. I can't believe she's trying to protect me. Maybe she still sees me as Brandy, the pathetic whore from Unincorporated Miami-Dade with dead parents and no family or income or education. We've known each other for eight or nine months but most of what she knows about me was a lie I invented under the KISS principle (the less complicated, the less you have to remember).

"Well?" she prompts.

"Yeah, I have cards," I say. "In my car."

"Great, let's go." She grabs my wrist and tugs me forward. I allow her to lead me, though thankfully once I follow she lets go.

"It's a real shame about Cher," she says as we walk. "I liked her."

"Yeah, I did too." It bothers me still that I didn't recognize her.

"You see her body?"

"Yeah," I nod.

She glances at me. "That's fucked up."

I exhale, "It was."

"What a shitty fucking way to go." She digs in a pocket, produces a cigarette. "You still smoke, or was that bullshit too?"

I look at the thin, white stick, and suddenly I want one more than anything. "No, that part was true."

"Great." She feels around her pockets. "You got a light?"

I nod. "You got an extra one of those?"

She hands me hers and pulls another out as I dig into a pocket, produce an orange bic. We stop for a second to light up together, and I close my eyes as the hit hits my lungs.

She blows out smoke. "So how long you been a cop, Debra?"

"Deb," I correct automatically and start walking again. "Five years."

She keeps pace. "Shit."

"I just got bumped out of Vice," I say. "That's why I'm not still standing around here with you."

"Glad to see you again either way," she says. "When you disappeared, for all we knew you were dead, maybe even chopped up by that sick of piece of shit you're hunting now."

"Well, I'm fine," I say. It's weird to know that any of them gave a shit about me, that they even noticed. Then again, in a lot of ways Shanda and her girls were more my coworkers than Lorenzo and the rest were. For one, they were the ones I saw every day, not my fellow cops, and I probably spent more time on this street in the last several months than I did in my own cubicle.

Suddenly I realize we've reached my car.

"This is it," I say, stopping.

She looks down at the hood. "Not bad." She taps off her cig. "Better than my fucking '94 Toyota, I'll tell you that."

"It's got four wheels," I say, then pull out my keys and tap unlock. "Need a lift?"

"No," she says. "My night's just starting, chica."

It doesn't feel right to leave her out here. "You sure?"

"Like I told you, I was here before that prick and I'll be here after. And this is my fucking neighborhood." She seems to see me hesitate, blows out smoke. "Get out of here. Don't worry about me."

"Alright," I say, heading for my car door.

As I open it she says, "Just be careful. I probably won't be around to pull your skinny ass out of trouble next time."

"I was never _in_ trouble," I say.

"If you say so," she smiles at me like she's talking to a five year old. "Night, Deb."

"Night, Shanda," I say.

She waves and turns to walk away.

I start up the car, flick on the lights, roll down the windows. Take one last pull on the cigarette, then flick it out of the car.

I can't believe I'm getting coddled by a whore.

And... fuck, I forgot to give her my card.


	21. Saturday Morning

_Saturday Morning  
><em>_Setting: "Let's Give the Boy a Hand"_

* * *

><p>My shoes slap into hard-packed dirt, my earbuds bounce in my ears, every breath tastes like warm air and cut grass and dust. I don't know how long I've been running but I've reached the point where I can barely feel my body anymore. Every forward stride keeps me rolling with the inertia. It seems like it'd be harder to stop than to just keep going.<p>

It feels great. I can't hold a thought longer than a few seconds. They keep slipping away, somewhere between my breath and the bassline in my ears. It's nice to feel so present, like nothing else in the world exists. Because I think too fucking much.

It's early morning Saturday. I decided to go out before it gets too hot. I don't think it's supposed to get above 80 but with the humidity it always feels like running against jello.

Not sure what my weekend holds for me. At the moment it doesn't matter. Nothing really matters except this.

So I breathe, keep on moving forward, right into a bright patch of sunlight.


	22. Sunday Morning

_Sunday Morning  
><em>_Setting: "Let's Give the Boy a Hand"_

* * *

><p>I toss the crumpled bagel wrapper from breakfast and an old paper cup that I think I left in the car Friday into a trash can as I head out of the parking lot for the beach.<p>

It's Sunday. I'm not even on duty today, but when Batista called me I rolled right out of bed. A severed hand on a beach. It's gotta be the Ice Truck Killer— the real Ice Truck Killer. It's been almost a whole week of nothing. He's been quiet since he did whatever he did to Tucci. LaGuerta's been using that as evidence for her crusade, saying to us and the media that we've got him on the run, but ever since she called her press conference I've been waiting for another body to surface. There was no way that fuck would let some rent a cop claim his title for too long. He only wanted us chasing our tails long enough for him to plan whatever he was doing in peace.

And now here we are.

I slip and slide over the sand as I head for the knot of cops gathered by what looks like a lounge chair and an umbrella, gravitating naturally towards the one with the hat and Hawaiian shirt. I'm so glad Batista thought to call me. If I'd heard about this first on the news I think my head would've exploded all over my couch.

"Hey," I say, halting awkwardly in the sand. (_Goddamn boots._)

"Hey," Batista says. "You just missed your brother."

I glance around, as if to make sure of what he said. "He left already?" I ask.

"Yeah. Said he had to grab something from home before he could go in."

"Hm," I exhale, losing interest in my brother's activities. My gaze flicks down to the chair. "What've we got?"

He chin-nods. "See for yourself."

I already am. I feel my mouth fall open as I lean in, staring. "What the fuck?"

"Pretty freaky, right?"

I nod.

It's a hand. Blood from where it was severed has leaked all over a towel, which is draped over a lounge chair. There's a red, plastic bucket and a yellow trowel; a beach ball; an umbrella. And, in the bucket... I take another step forward, lean even closer. "Is that a picture?"

"Yep," he says. "Here." He comes in beside me and pulls it out, then holds it up. Since I don't have gloves I just look over his arm.

"What the fuck?" I say again.

It's a polaroid of exactly what we're looking at, from just about where I'm standing: the hand on the chair, palm open, like it's waving hello.

I glance from the picture to the real thing and back again.

"I don't get it," I say after a beat.

"Don't get what?" he asks.

"This," I make an all-encompassing gesture. "The picture, the shit for a family outing to the beach. And that..." I look at the hand again, "I'm not a coroner, but that doesn't look like it came from a woman. And it's bloody. What happened to the fucking liquid nitrogen? After five crime scenes without a speck of blood why would he suddenly leave us this?"

"We're all asking the same questions," Batista says. "We've already got prints en route to the lab. If whoever this hand belongs to is in the system, we should be hearing back any minute now."

"Whoever?" I repeat. I look from the hand to the picture again. "What if this is Tucci's hand?"

"Tucci?" he says.

"Tucci." I cross my arms. "I know you're not drinking LaGuerta's Kool-Aid anymore than me. We both know Tucci was a victim, but his body never surfaced. What if that's because the real Ice Truck Killer was keeping it to do this?" I pause. "Whatever this is."

He nods, looking from me to the hand, "I admit, I was thinking the same thing."

"LaGuerta's gonna shit a fucking brick if we're right," I can't help grinning. "Jesus fuck, all the manpower she's wasted..."

"Hey," he stops me. "We don't know anything for sure yet. We still don't have any evidence that Tucci _isn't_ the Ice Truck Killer."

"Not yet," I murmur. "How long has this been here?"

"Your brother estimated a couple hours."

"That arrogant shitcake..." I shake my head. "He set all this up in broad daylight. He's fucking with us."

"Well, maybe he slipped up," Batista swivels slightly, and I follow his gaze to all the lookiloos beyond the tape. "With all the people around, maybe somebody saw something."

"Wouldn't that be peachy," I mutter.

He nods, but before either of us can say anything else a new voice is shouting, "Angel." We both look over to see Doakes standing in the parking lot. "Come here," he says, gesturing us over. His eyebrows dip as we make eye contact, and I glance at Batista before we both make our way away from the hand.

"Morgan, what're you doing here?" Doakes says in greeting when we reach him.

"Good morning to you too," I say. "Batista called me."

"Hm," he grunts.

I probably shouldn't ask but I'm curious. "What're you doing here? I thought Batista was working the Ice Truck Killer."

He fixes me with his skunk eye. "With the Simmons case closed, I'm being moved onto this."

"You've got something?" Batista asks before I can ask what that means for us.

"Yeah, I've got something. Our print results came in. That," he points at the lounge chair, "belongs to Tony Tucci."

(_Shit._)

It's horrible but I can't stop a grin. "You're shitting me," I say.

"Don't look so fucking pleased with yourself, Morgan," Doakes growls. He looks at Batista. "This case just got a lot higher profile. The press is going to be crawling up our asses once we release this, and now we're back to having shit all on a suspect."

He nods.

"I've gotta call the lieutenant, see how she wants us to proceed. CNN's already setting up outside. Pretty soon half the fucking morning line-up's gonna be waiting for a statement." He glances at me with a weird look on his face. "You planning to stick around?" he asks me, though I have a feeling that's not what he wanted to say.

"You kidding?" I say.

He does this sort of half nod, then pulls out his phone. "I'll be back in a minute," he says, walking away.

Batista watches him go. I turn around and look at the hand again.

I can feel my excitement level rising. This past week has felt like a constant battle of wills between me and LaGuerta. After her press release I kept my mouth closed, watching her make an endless amount of appearances on the news reassuring the city that we're going to find Tucci and crucify him. She's so fucking desperation for attention she ran straight to the cameras the second we had a name— any name —to give to the public. But now she's really stepped in it. Matthews is gonna take a chunk out of her ass the size of the moon and serve it to her. And the best part is he knows she ignored me...

"The Captain's gonna be pissed," Batista remarks. "If we have the results, you know they already landed on his desk."

"He's probably tearing her a new asshole as we speak," I finish his thought, feeling practically giddy about it. "Fuck, I wish I was there."

"You don't want to be in LaGuerta's crosshairs when she's pissed," he says. "Trust me. It's better you're here, especially if she saw that shit-eating grin on your face."

"I'm sorry, but I can't fucking help it," I say, smoothing hair behind my ear. "She's shut down every theory I've had on this case, and every time I've come up correct— the ice truck, Tucci. Maybe after this she'll fucking finally decide to listen to me." I blow out a breath, suddenly craving a cigarette. "Even if she won't it's nice to know that for once I'm not gonna be the only one getting shit on."

He adjusts his glasses. "Yeah, LaGuerta's had it coming on this case."

I lean in, "Admit it, you'd love to watch the smack down just as much as me."

A grin pulls at his lips. "I don't think anyone wants it as much as you."

"Fucking got that right."

"Angel," Doakes' voice cuts through again, and we both look back to see him walking toward us. "Can I talk to you?"

"Sure," Batista says. "I'll be back in a minute," he says to me.

I watch him walk to Doakes, trying not to feel suspicious at being excluded. I have to keep reminding myself that everyone still sees me as green, and, of course, I _am _green. I haven't been on Homicide that long at all yet; haven't even learned everybody's names (though at least the rumors about me and Matthews seem to have gone away already... haven't heard anything in days). If they have to discuss something then it's probably none of my fucking business anyway.

I walk out, back onto the beach and back under the sun. There's something familiar about it, comforting. Before Mom died we used to come out to a beach, any beach, pretty much every weekend. Dad wasn't so much into beaches, but we still would occasionally come out. And, I mean, it's Miami: a date on the beach, an evening run, dinner. Who knows, maybe I have been here before. At any rate, the crime scene and the press can't really corrupt it.

I take a breath of ocean air. I'm still grinning about this whole situation.

Is it fucked? Sure. Finding out that Tucci's dead and dismembered is not happy news, and I shouldn't be smiling about it, but then again his body parts are only confirming what I already knew. The Ice Truck Killer couldn't have come up with a better way of telling us what he thinks of us buying into his frame job. Why the hand, I don't know. There's something so strangely friendly about it in the picture, like it's waving hello, inviting us to the beach. Maybe it's his way of inviting us to pull our heads out of our asses.

But where's the rest of Tucci's body?

Why _just_ a hand?

Fuck if I know...

I turn from the ocean to see Doakes and Batista walking back onto the sand.

But we're going to find out, and I'm going to be there when we do.

I jog over to catch up to them just as Batista separates from him. If they're done talking then I want to know what I get to do to help.

And also if LaGuerta's still got all her limbs.


	23. At Shift End

_At Shift End  
><em>_Setting: "Let's Give the Boy a Hand"_

* * *

><p>I click my pen in and toss it onto my desk, then roll my neck and pull all my hair over one shoulder. Last bit of paperwork on this morning's interviews done. Aside from encroaching carpal tunnel, our investigations today gave us exactly zilch.<p>

Not that I was really expecting any different, to be honest. If anyone had seen the Ice Truck Killer, then they're probably dead too. He's so careful with his crime scenes I doubt he'd be too lenient on a witness if one were to somehow stumble across him. And then there was the afternoon re-toss of Tucci's place, this time searching for evidence left behind from the frame. Of course there was nothing there either.

I check my watch, leaning back. Shift ends in a half hour.

Hm.

I push up from my desk, decide to walk over to Dexter's station to see what he's up to. Masuka leers at me as I approach. "Looking for company tonight?" he asks.

"Sorry, I've got gonorrhea," I say.

He continues grinning, "No problem. I've got something for that." Then he's leaning down and opening his cabinet. When I glance over the door I can see that he's got a whole pharmaceutical collection in there— at least twenty little bottles, orange, green, white.

My gaze flicks up to meet his, and I just look at him for a second. "I'm going now," I say, then head for my brother's office.

I open the door to find him packing up. "Leaving early?" I ask, leaning against the frame.

"What?" he looks up and around until he finds me. "Oh, yeah. Rita and I are going costume shopping."

"You're dressing up?" That surprises me. Dexter's never been big on celebrating holidays (though, if I'm honest, neither am I).

"No," he shakes his head. "But Rita invited me to help find something for Astor and Cody. I'm going to go meet her at her place, then we're gonna go out, go shopping, get dinner."

I can't help feeling slightly jealous. "Sounds nice," I say.

"Yeah, it will be."

For a second I wonder how whiny it would sound to say I've got no plans, for tonight or for Halloween. But I decide to just keep it to myself. "You got anything new on the hand?" I ask instead.

He shakes his head. "Same as what I told you earlier. It's totally clean."

"But you're sure when it came off Tucci was alive?" I ask.

"Yeah," he zips up his bag.

"So he died this morning," I repeat what I've been saying to myself since he told us just after lunch. "Why would the Ice Truck Killer have kept him alive all this time?"

Dexter shrugs, "I don't know."

"And why just the hand? And what's with the blood?"

Another shrug, "I don't know."

I try to capture his eyes. "So you don't have any theories?"

He shakes his head. "Afraid not."

I cross my arms. "Come on. Work with me here. LaGuerta's got her ass in a sling and if I can come up with anything while she's down I can rub it in."

He looks up from his bag as he shoves something inside another flap. "I'm not sure that's a healthy way of looking at this." _Ziiiiiiiiiip._ "And I don't have anything for you, Deb. The hand's clean. I don't know why he kept him alive. Maybe he was just trying to figure out what to do with him until today."

"And what he decided on was leaving us his hand on a lounge chair on a beach? With a postcard?"

He shrugs for the umpteenth time, gives me a look of 'I have no idea.'

"Fine," I say. "Be that way."

"What way?" he asks.

"Unhelpful," I say. "Go. Have fun with Rita and the kids. Say hello for me."

"I will," he says, pauses. "I notice you didn't say you have any plans for Halloween."

"Just another day," I shrug. "And I'm on shift."

"You should go out. Have a life. It would be good for you."

Yeah, no thanks. "What would be good for me is catching a break on this psycho douchepail. My life can wait."

He slings his bag over his shoulder. "If you say so, sister."

"I say so," I say, backing up so he can get by me.

"Night, Deb," he says as he passes.

"Yeah, night," I reply. I can't decide if I'm annoyed with him or not as I watch him walk away. I can theorize all by myself: I don't really need him for that. I think maybe my feelings have more to do with the fact that he has plans and someone to go home to and I don't. But I can't fault him for making better choices in his relationship than I do in mine. That would be petty, and wrong, since I'm half at fault for all my fuck ups.

"So no plans with Dextrous?" Masuka slithers up to me.

I glance at him and sigh. "Fuck off, Masuka."

I can hear him doing that weird giggle as I get away from him. Still trolling for conversation, I stop by Batista's desk.

"So," I say when he doesn't look up from a report he's reading. "What're you doing Halloween? Your daughter still trick-or-treat?"

He looks up, brightening at the mention of her. "Yeah," he says. "Auri loves dressing up. Her favorite holiday besides Christmas."

"Yeah, what kid wouldn't love it? Candy and costumes." I exhale. "You dressing up too?"

He shakes his head, "Nah. I'm too old for that shit, you know?"

I nod. I think Halloween stopped meaning anything to me by the time I was 8. The last few have just turned into playing dress-up in the bedroom, and, really, the fun in that is taking the costume _off_...

"Besides, it's also my anniversary," Batista says, dragging me back to focus.

"You proposed on Halloween?" I ask.

"No," he shakes his head. "It's the anniversary of the day we met. We met at a Halloween party. I saw her on the other side of the bar and I knew I was in love."

"Aw, that's so sweet," I say. "How many years?"

"Ten," he grins proudly.

"Get the fuck out of town," I lightly punch his shoulder.

"What about you?" he says. "Got any plans?"

"I'll probably be here," I say. "If I'm home somebody might knock on my door."

"I'll steal you a Kit-Kat," he says.

"And that's why you're my new best friend," I grin at him, then look over at Doakes. "Hey, Sergeant," I say. "You got any plans for Halloween?"

He glances at me, "Fuck off, Morgan." Then right back down to his papers.

"You know, he says that," I say to Batista, "but I'm growing on him, I can tell."

"The only thing growing is the fucking mold between your ears," Doakes mutters.

I glance at him, then exchange a grin with Batista.

"You done with your reports?" Doakes adds.

"Yep," I say.

"Then where are they?"

I move from Batista's desk to mine, where I grab the stack of papers. I straighten it out against the desk, then walk over to Doakes. "Here you are, Grumpy," I say, holding it out.

He glares at me, but I can tell that somewhere deep down below his general hatred of everything he's starting to like me.

Deep, deep down. Like way the fuck down there.

He takes the pages with a grunt.

I drift back over to Batista's desk. "Bet I know what LaGuerta'll be doing for the next few days," I say, looking at the lieutenant through the glass. Her door is shut, and she's scribbling away at something on her desk, like she's been doing all day. "Applying balm to her ass for the chunk the Captain took out of it."

Batista snorts.

"I can't wait to hear her statement to the press," I continue. "Bet I'll be able to catch it on the 10 o'clock news. Wonder if she'll make the front page..."

"That's enough, Morgan," Doakes interrupts me. "If you're done here, why don't you follow your brother? You weren't even supposed to be on shift today."

I turn to him as Batista looks back down at his report. "Hey, I've got nothing waiting for me at home. I'm in no hurry to leave."

"Lucky us," he says.

"Damn right," I say, then walk back to my desk and plop into my chair.

It's true. Technically I should be home right now, but for whatever reason LaGuerta agreed to my overtime request, so I am on shift for a little longer, and I don't really feel like leaving yet anyway. The traffic between here and my apartment will take half my life to get through, and once I get there all I've got is a frozen meal and an empty apartment to look forward to. At least here there're other people to talk to, and there's an endless amount of free, shitty coffee to drink.

Just as I think this I see a group of five guys heading from the break room, all chatting away: Yale, Soderquist, Ramos, Bililoc, Lopez. They wave to Batista as they walk through in the direction of the elevator, but none of them look at me. I haven't entered their circle yet. If they're going out together then theoretically this could be a good time to try to break into it, but something about the thought seems totally exhausting, so I don't move or say anything as they pass.

I just pull my hair to one shoulder again.

I wish we had a lead to chase, something for me to focus on. Right now we still only have 'wood-paneled station wagon,' and scrolling through the DMV database for it endlessly hasn't been helpful. A few days ago I ran it against missing persons, going with Doakes' theory that maybe he was using our Jane Doe's car, but so far there's no MP report on anyone resembling her, and no one who matched her general description owned a station wagon. I'm starting to think she'll never get IDed, and that we probably won't end up finding the car either.

And that just sucks.

Though I'm sure even we did ID her there'd be no one to claim her body...

I let the thought go, decide to check my email. A few clicks, a few moments of waiting, and I'm in. But there's nothing. Not even spam.

I close out the window.

I should've followed Ramos and the rest out. I bet they're going out to catch a drink, and a drink sounds nice. On the other hand, the tension doesn't. I'm so new I'm sure I'm still being categorized, and I probably need to strengthen my reputation before I go out drinking with the boys. (Because that's all I need, more rumors.) There will always be other nights, since I'm not planning on going anywhere. As far into the future as I want to look, I see myself in this department.

I tap my fingers against my blotter, decide to grab some coffee.

For tonight I'll just wait out my shift, go home, crack open a beer or two, catch LaGuerta's press conference (would that be popcorn worthy?), eat my shitty dinner. Who knows what tomorrow will be bring.

Right now there's coffee, and that's good enough.


	24. A New Assignment

_A New Assignment  
><em>_Setting: "Let's Give the Boy a Hand"_

* * *

><p><em>AN: Corrected a minor detail about where the foot was severed._

Forty minutes in and already I want to throw myself off the roof.

I jiggle my leg against the TV, staring at the screen. I'm not sure if I'm being paranoid or not in thinking that LaGuerta did this to me deliberately just to torture me. It's bullshit that techs couldn't do this— analyzing security footage is one of the things they're trained to do —and if this was so important that she needs a cop to do it then I wouldn't be stuck in here alone. Maybe she overheard me yesterday when I was celebrating all the mud on her face (I really need to keep my mouth shut...). Or maybe this is her way of keeping me busy and off any real police work.

Speaking of which...

I stab the pause button on the VHS machine as I spot Batista coming in with Dexter, who's holding a white cooler, his bag slung over a shoulder. "Hey," I say, opening the door. They both stop and look at me, then glance between themselves, as if asking each other which one I'm talking to. "Batista," I say to clarify, "what the fuck?"

Dexter gestures toward his office. "I'm gonna start analysis."

He makes his escape as I walk over to Batista. "What happened?" I ask. "Doakes came in earlier, said he came from the new crime scene. Am I getting benched?"

He shrugs, "Sorry, LT's orders. You saw the news?"

"Yeah," I cross my arms. I listened to it last night and this morning as I was getting ready. "It's a fucking shit storm."

"And we're right in the center of it. I'm thinking LaGuerta wants to move our most senior detectives onto this to prove we're putting all our resources into catching this guy."

"So that leaves me watching security feeds," I sigh.

He glances over my shoulder at the TV. "Security feeds?"

"From cameras around the crime scenes." I flip my hand, shove it back under my arm.

From the look on his face I can pretty much guess what he's thinking. "There'll be another break," he says. "Just do your duty and get through this and before you know it you'll be on scene again."

"Yeah, yeah." I wave it off. "Can you at least tell me about the scene? All I keep hearing is something about a foot and a soccer ball."

"Your brother's got all the pictures. And the foot," he says. "Might want to just go see for yourself." He pauses, gestures behind himself, "I've gotta go talk to Doakes."

"Yeah, okay," I say. As he walks over to the sergeant I decide to take his advice, go over to Dexter's station. I find my brother as he's plugging his camera into his computer. Within a moment a little pop-up window appears, and Dexter clicks through a few screens until a picture of what looks like a small green space near a river pops up. On a bench in the center of the shot is a foot in a cleat next to a soccer ball.

"Can I have a look?" I say as he begins tapping through them.

He glances over his shoulder. "Where were you this morning?"

"Don't ask," I reply, approaching. I look at the cooler on the opposite side of his desk from me, knowing what's in there and curious to see it.

"Okay," he says. Sometimes I wish he wouldn't just let everything go like that, but right now I'm more interested in his pictures than in complaining.

"Tell me about the scene," I say.

"You're looking at it," he says, punching through the shots. "Right foot, severed straight through the tibia and fibula, just above the ankle." He traces the cut with his finger. "Probably male, from the shoe size. The blood pooling suggests the foot was in the cleat when it was," he makes a whistling sound, "separated from the body." He grabs a small, plastic baggie and hands it to me. "This was left under the ball."

I take it and hold it up. Another polaroid, this time of the foot. It's weird, shot like another postcard, or a memory for a photo album. Something about it gives me the creeps, like cold fingertips running up the base of my neck. This is all just another art piece to him, and this is the angle he wants us to view it from.

"Is it Tucci?" I ask.

He shrugs. "We're running DNA now. Same blood type though. B-positive."

"It's gotta be him," I say. I hand him back the picture. "What the fuck is this? A hand at the beach, a foot on a bench in a downtown green space?"

"He's playing with us," he says, setting the baggie back on his desk. "Wants to know if we can understand his message."

I look at him. "What do you think the message is?"

He goes back to clicking through shots. "I don't know."

Since he's not looking at me I go back to looking at his screen. Close ups from every angle: the scene, the blood, the ball, the bench, the trees, Amanda's Fucking Snack Cakes. Whatever the message is, if he wants us to understand it, he's going to have to give us some additional fucking sign posts.

Unless it all won't come together until we've received every last piece of Tucci's corpse.

"Jesus, this fucknut has us by the short hairs," I say. "He's controlled us every step of the investigation. If this foot gives us nothing then we're just going to continue sitting around with our thumbs up our asses until more body parts come rolling in." Dexter glances back at me, and I work my jaw. "This was found around 7 again, right?"

He nods, "Right."

I stare at the picture on screen for a second before meeting his gaze, "How much you wanna bet that tomorrow morning we'll be getting a call about another part showing up?" I exhale, stand up straighter. "Eventually this guy's gonna make a mistake. When he does I can't wait to be there to ruin his fucking day."

A weird look flickers across Dexter's face, then he smiles, "Glad to see you've gotten so confident since the transfer."

I grin automatically, make a sweeping gesture over myself, "It's the new fucking me." I drop my hand, let the grin go with it. "Feel free to interrupt me when you've got any news."

"Will do."

I nod, slip out the door and trudge back to the TV. It's still paused just where I left it— at an especially unflattering angle of a man who both resembles and seems to weigh about as much as a beluga. I plop into my chair and find the remote on the floor, then prop my feet against the stand and lean back. Hit x2. The guy feeds his card and seems to fail his pincode twice before giving up and using a new card. He pulls out what looks like at least two hundred bucks, then finally wanders away from the camera's view after crumpling his receipt and throwing it on the pavement.

Beautiful.

I slow back to real-time, staring at the beach at the edge of the camera's view. The crime scene isn't in frame. If this or anything else in that box actually give us anything then I'll volunteer to eat them.

Time passes. Eventually someone else approaches the camera, and I speed up again. It's some little old lady. She clears the ATM quickly, and once again I slow back to real-time.

"Morgan," a knock on the glass behind me distracts me from the screen, and I look back with a feeling of hope.

Some uniform is standing there, framed in the doorway. I think his name is Pascal, but I really can't remember right now. "Yeah?" I say.

He holds up another box, crushing whatever hope I felt to the bottom of my boots.

"Got these for you," he says. "From the last ITK crime scene."

"Just shove them next to the other box," I gesture at it.

He nods and does what I asked, then flashes me what looks like a sympathy smile before quickly retracting back into the pen, shutting the door as he goes.

I turn back to the screen, glare at the empty street, then throw my arms behind my back.

Fuck me, this is going to be a long day.


	25. Fishbowl

_Fishbowl  
><em>_Setting: "Let's Give the Boy a Hand"_

* * *

><p><em>AN: Some borrowed dialogue._

I adjust in my chair for the thousandth time, continue alternating between squeezing and rolling the remote around my fingers. It's been eight hours of this. I feel like an animal in one of those circus cages, desperate for movement, for something exciting, for something to break the boredom, but there's just nothing except an endless amount of footage and this fucking chair and the tin foil remains of my dinner on the desk. I can still smell the relish and the mustard.

It's just an empty fucking street. Dear, sweet fucking christ, it's not even facing the crime scene. I will never ever see anything here. Even if the killer does drive by, how would I ever know? The resolution's too poor to make out plates or faces anyway...

And I'm the only one on this floor. Everyone else has gone home, probably to dinner and significant others and the hope that Doakes' extra patrol units will find something. I will never find a break here but that isn't stopping my desperation for one.

Then again part of me doesn't want to find anything. LaGuerta gave me this steaming pile of shit, and as petty as it is I don't want to find anything that'll justify all this wasted energy. I want her to admit this is a waste of time and put me back out on the ground, send these tapes to the techs where they belong.

But I doubt she'd ever decide to do that without a push. I've gotta find a lead somehow, someway. There's got to be something somebody missed, but I can't think of anything. The best theory we've got is Dexter's vague as hell 'places that have changed,' but, I mean, fuck, there's barely a square mile of Miami that isn't completely flipped around every few years. But it's all we have.

I jiggle my leg.

If it really is 'change,' then why a fucking office riverwalk that was a soccer field? Why a beach that changed its name? They're both the kinds of places a kid would go. A parent. Is this the Ice Truck Killer working out some childhood trauma? Or am I just reaching for the lowest hanging fruit? That's always the first impulse with any psych profile— pin it on the parents, on a fucked up childhood. But just because it's cliché doesn't mean it's not true...

"Ugh," I exhale aloud, stopping my leg. I'd kill for a lead. And not just for my sake. If Tucci really is alive... Jesus, he's lost a hand and a foot. Who knows what he's going to lose in the morning. The thought of it is disturbing as fuck, like something out of some really fucked up movie that makes you want to take a shower and volunteer at a soup kitchen just to feel clean again.

I need outside help. I've been thinking that since everyone left and I'm still thinking it now. (_Fuck, where's my phone?_)

I grab my bag and shift it toward me, glance up to check the screen (still nothing) before digging around for my phone. When I find it I flip it open expectantly, but there's no response. When I hit the power button it lights up for a moment, then shuts down again.

Dead.

Fucking perfect...

I look around, remembering there's a landline in here. It's sitting right next to the tin foil. I grab it and pull it forward, dial Dexter's number, then set the modem on my knee.

It rings four times before he answers, "Morgan."

"Save me," I say.

His breath hits the receiver, "What?"

I adjust the phone, "You've gotta help me find a lead, Dex." I take a breath, "I will pay you one million dollars if you help me figure out where the next piece of Tucci's gonna show up."

"I'm afraid I'm lost on this one, Deb," he says. "It's like it's staring me right in the face, but—"

I cut him off again just to emphasize, "One million dollars."

He sighs, "You don't have a million dollars."

The reply is automatic, "I'll steal it from evidence. I've been stuck in a goddamn fishbowl all day. I wanna be part of the hunt." I exhale, "I'm almost off duty..."

"Sorry, sister," he says, not sounding particularly sorry at all.

I blow out a breath, "Two million dollars." He's silent. I keep pushing, "I know you made a list of locations. Just pick your favorite spot; we'll stake it out together."

Long pause. It sounds like he's doing something in the background. Probably preparing dinner or something.

Asshole.

"Come on," I prod. "I wanna play."

Still nothing. Then, "Deb, I gotta go. We'll compare notes tomorrow, okay?"

The line goes dead before I can say anything, or even process what he said.

I pull the phone away. Glare at it.

"Dammit, Dexter," I say to no one, then set it back in its cradle. I look up at the screen again. Yet more cars, the occasional pedestrian. A black sedan sits at a traffic light, then rolls by. The time stamp reads 7:03.

I shift the phone back onto the desk.

Dexter's list was my best shot. He's the one who came up with the idea so I can only assume he has the best guess as to our next crime scene. I'm still not even entirely sure how he came up with it, and I was hoping maybe he'd be willing to share if I got him alone, away from Doakes and everyone else. Even if none of his locations turned up anything, at least it'd be doing _something_ instead of just sitting here.

But no, he has better things to do. Probably Rita, specifically.

I check my watch again. Twenty minutes.

I can do it.

I cross my legs.

I keep watching, thinking about Tucci. I still can't believe he's alive. He went missing just over a week ago. Where is the killer keeping him? Is he knocking him out before he cuts or did he just strap the poor bastard down so he can saw away as he pleases? Why did he keep him so long before he started doing this? _Why_ is he doing this? Why grab Tucci of all people? Is it just because he was unlucky enough to be there at the wrong time on the wrong day?

What if this _is_ a childhood thing? What if all these dead hookers are his mother, and he's leaving us his metaphorical father in pieces?

Does he want us to save him? Is that why he's still alive and only being cut once a day?

If we're supposed to be getting clues to his location from the polaroids or the crime scenes, then I've got no fucking ideas at all.

Then again, maybe I'm just thinking too much into this, taking my psych classes way too seriously. Maybe the only reason he's keeping him alive and doing this slowly is because it amuses him, and it amuses him to know that we know that Tucci's alive and there's nothing we can do to save him. He's probably getting off on LaGuerta's fuck-up. Who knows, maybe he's even showing all this to Tucci, showing him what incompetent assholes we are just before sawing into him...

I curl my fingers.

I hate feeling so helpless to do anything. Trapped in here, unable to contribute meaningfully to the investigation. But even if I was out there, I still wouldn't have anything to go on.

I glance at the time stamp again.

7:19. The foot had been found by now.

I check my watch again. My shift's basically up, so I might as well stop here.

I reach forward and hit eject. Once the tape spits out I flip the TV off, shove the VHS back into its case, then get up to stack it with the other tapes and CDs I've already gone through. The amount of footage sitting in the boxes that I've yet to watch is almost nauseating.

I stretch, then grab my blazer and my bag, throw them both over the same shoulder and hold them there.

The station's dead as I head out of my little fishbowl to shut off my desk light and check to make sure I didn't leave anything. Once I'm satisfied I head for the stairs, glad for the chance to get my blood flowing again.

As I walk down all I can think about is Tucci, scared and alone and missing two appendages. He's gonna end up losing another tomorrow, and there's fuck all I can do about it.

Angrily I shove the door to the lobby open, wave to the night security guy before heading for the exit.

Fuck I hope he doesn't die before we find him.


	26. Breakfast Burrito

_Breakfast Burrito  
><em>_Setting: "Let's Give the Boy a Hand"_

* * *

><p>Traffic my ass.<p>

I roll to a stop at the light, glare at the bumper in front of me. The station's about two blocks from here and I still have forty minutes until shift start. I mean, there was traffic, but it was manageable, and now I'm set to arrive early for another day of sitting in the fishbowl with a TV and an uncomfortable chair. I so wanted to stay at that crime scene, to help canvas or whatever needed to be done, but LaGuerta doesn't want me there, and I have to obey.

It's goddamn frustrating.

The light changes, and an impulse seizes me. I merge left, take a u-turn, go back the other way to a Mexican place up the street. If I'm gonna get through today then I need a fucking breakfast burrito. I didn't make time to eat this morning.

I travel up the street, take a right, then turn into a parking lot in a little strip mall. There's a space right in front of the restaurant, and I pull into it, kill the engine, grab my purse, open the door.

Eight minutes later I'm walking out with an agua fresca and a hot burrito wrapped in a cocoon of tin foil and paper towels. Since the building is shading my car, and since the window facing me has the blinds down, I opt to just sit on the hood to eat. I can hear cars passing down the road, feel the breeze coming in off the water nearby. It's starting to cool off again. It hasn't crested 80 once in the past week, making it downright pleasant to be outside, and making it all the more a shame I'll be stuck in the station again.

I unwrap the tin foil, smell the hot tortilla and the egg and the chorizo and the cheese and the peppers.

Fuck.

I take a bite, savor it.

But my thoughts quickly slide back to this morning.

I woke up at 6 today wired. Sleep felt impossible, so I got up and showered and got dressed. By 6:45 I was listening to the news and LaGuerta's latest press release (again), staring anxiously at my phone. I wasn't sure if anyone would call me if something turned up, but the whole morning all I could think was that the Ice Truck Killer was probably sawing off another one of Tucci's limbs as I sat there. When the phone rang at 7:03, I answered on the first ring. It was Batista. He was en route to the scene and thought I'd appreciate the heads up. I was out the door before we'd even hung up.

Unfortunately for me, I was kicked off the scene before I was able to find out anything. All I really saw was the leg in the wagon, nestled in the straw, bloody on both ends. Looked like his shin, the pair to his foot. He's moving up his leg. Who knows if Tucci's still alive after that, but if the Ice Truck Killer's been going through so much effort to keep him alive so far I'd be surprised if he let him die now. Tomorrow though... if he moves up again, unless this guy's a surgeon, cutting through the thigh would have the poor bastard bleeding out in seconds.

Though honestly, if I were him, I'd probably welcome it at this point.

I chew my burrito, staring at nothing.

Why the fucking pumpkin patch? That I know hasn't changed, at least not since the early 90s, since I do remember Dad taking us there one year. I even remember riding a wagon sort of like the one they found Tucci's leg in. Maybe Dexter was wrong about the killer dumping pieces in places that have changed. And maybe this really is a childhood thing. Beach, soccer field, pumpkin patch. Maybe the Ice Truck Killer's dad used to take him to all these places, and now he's leaving behind metaphorical pieces of him as mementos.

Maybe I should bring this up to Doakes and Batista.

Then again, maybe I shouldn't. Some pop psychology theory about his fucked up childhood isn't going to help us narrow down locations any more than 'places that have changed' did. And coming from me I doubt anyone's going to scramble the troops to every park, school, and movie theater in Miami.

I wipe off my mouth, take another bite.

That doesn't mean I can't compile something on my off-time. Maybe I'll rope Dexter in on my theory, pick his brain for ideas, get him to go out on a stake out tonight. This time I'll ask at the station so he can't just hang up on me. He'll probably say it's a waste of time, but so is sitting around watching security feeds. At least it would _feel_ like hunting.

I reach for my drink, take a long sip on the straw. As I'm making to jam it back between my legs I notice a family of five walking toward me. The kids stare at me for a second before running to the Mexican place's door and throwing it open. I give a polite smile to the parents as they briefly make eye contact, who return it before following their kids inside.

I flip my arm, check the time. I have less than twenty minutes now, but I guess I might as well get going.

Taking another sip, I slide off the hood, then get back into my car.

The drive the rest of the way back to the station is quiet. Once I arrive I crumple the tin foil, scrub off my face with the napkin, then grab my purse and exit.

I find Musuka waiting at the elevator after I get through security. For a second I debate going for the stairs to avoid him, but that seems like more effort than it's worth. "Morning," I say, taking a sip of my drink.

He grins at me, his eyes going to my mouth, which still has the straw in it. "Morning, Morgan," he says.

I pull the drink away, wanting to stop whatever comment I'm sure is about to pop out of him. "Why aren't you at the Ice Truck Killer scene?"

"Coz I've got a mountain of backlog," he says. "That shooting at the heroin den's still got about a million fibers to be processed." He sighs, "Your brother gets all the fun."

The doors ding open, and we step inside. I nod as we do, sipping my drink again.

"Why aren't you there?"

I drop my hand. "LaGuerta's still got me on the tapes."

"Oh, bummer," a grin creeps across his face again. "Well, if you want company, I'm sure I can find some time to—"

"Please." I hold up both hands. "It's too early for you."

"Or we could always just hit the emergency break. I could give you all the company you want right here."

I glare at him, "I have a gun. I will shoot you between the eyes."

He starts that freaking giggling again, but before I can decide whether or not I actually want to shoot him, the doors slide open again. Thank fuck.

I step out, head for my desk. Masuka keeps walking when I stop. No messages, no memos.

I straighten, look into the fishbowl. My fishbowl. I check the time. Ugh.

Resigning myself, I walk inside and shut the door, then take off my blazer and toss it over the chair, which I then plop into. After dropping my purse I reach into the box and grab a CD.

From a restaurant near the riverwalk.

I flick the TV and the DVD player on, feed in the CD, then grab the remote and lean back.

So my day begins.


	27. Tucci, Angel of Mercy Hospital– basement

"_Tucci, Angel of Mercy Hospital – basement"  
><em>_Setting: "Let's Give the Boy a Hand"_

* * *

><p>This is the place.<p>

I roll to a stop, slowly key off my car. For a second I stare at the sign, feeling slightly creeped out. Angel o Mercy Hospit-l. Some of the letters are missing, others broken. There's graffiti and trash everywhere. When I look past the overgrown plants to the building I see a lot of peeled paint, broken windows, and more graffiti. Before I turn off my lights I dig through my passenger compartment for the flashlight I keep there. It's only as I'm getting out that I turn off my headlights and double lock my car.

Every terrible horror movie I've ever seen keeps flashing annoyingly through my head as I make my way toward the entrance. An abandoned hospital on Halloween. Maybe I should call for back-up. Then again I'm off duty, and for all I know this is a prank. All the message said was "Tucci, Angel of Mercy Hospital— basement" and dispatch didn't have any information as to who called it in, or why they specifically addressed it to me. Could it have been Shanda? One of her girls? Who else could it have been?

I approach the doors. They're both half-open. I reach out and pull one toward me, then peer into the hallway. It's dark as shit, but from the light coming in I can just make out trash scattered all over the floor.

This is how people die in slasher flicks. They go into the abandoned hospital alone.

But I'm a fucking cop, and this isn't a movie. I may not be entirely sure why I'm here but I'm not afraid. (_Right?_)

"Fuck it," I mutter, pulling out my gun. I cross it over the flashlight, push the door the rest of the way open with my shoulder, then go inside, all my senses working on overdrive. My beam passes over more graffiti on the walls, crumpled paper and plastic and old needles on the floor, random pieces of furniture— tables, chairs. And... I hear skittering, catch a group of rats scattering away from the light. Rat shit.

I sweep the light along the floor as I walk. Rat shit everywhere.

The rats don't particularly faze me. The needles do. If I'm walking straight into a heroin den then being alone isn't my smartest move.

But the note said Tucci. In the basement.

I walk past the double doors marking what used to be an ICU, keep going through what I can only assume is an old administrative area. I don't know where the fuck to find a basement in a hospital.

Who the fuck called through dispatch about this place? Why did they address it to me?

I stop in front of a door. It's unmarked.

After a second's hesitation I reach over and rip it open, shine my beam inside. But all I see is a wall and empty shelves and about six rats, who immediately scamper for a corner and disappear through a hole. Broom closet. Great.

I shut it, keep going.

Basement, basement... (Like a morgue?)

Who called me here? What if this is a trap?

That's ridiculous. Why would the Ice Truck Killer call me here, and how could he be sure I wouldn't bring the whole department with me? How would he even know my name?

But if it wasn't him, then who the hell was it? Is this a joke? Is someone fucking with me?

I flinch at a sound, whirl around. For half a millisecond I think I see someone standing there, but then my eyes readjust, and it's just a post. (_Shit._) When I shine my beam down the hall I see something larger than a rat run away, its nail scritching across the floor. Striped tail. Raccoon.

"Fuck you," I mutter, turning back around.

Tucci. Basement. What if he really is here? Is he even still alive? Dexter said he was alive when the piece of him we found this morning was taken off him. I can only assume he's still breathing.

I open another door. It looks like it leads to an old wing. My light reflects off shattered windows and old tables. Broken glass glitters all over the floor. I can see beer bottles and more needles. I'm not going in there.

There's got to be a stairway somewhere the fuck around here.

Just as I think this I spot an in-case-of-fire map on the opposite wall. I walk over to it. "Ah ha," I whisper, seeing a stairway marked as going down. I just have to keep going straight, then the door on the right.

I do that, find the door almost immediately. Once again I pause, but this time I don't allow myself much more than a second before opening it. My curiosity is getting the best of me, winning out over the fear. My heartbeat taps steadily, almost giddily, in my ear. I don't remember the last time I had a worse idea than this.

The stairway is pitch dark. When I walk inside the door shuts behind me, enveloping me in black. It smells like mold and dust and piss. I'm sure I'm walking in rat shit as I make my way to the stairs. I make it down a flight before I stop, noticing light coming from below.

What the fuck?

My gun is tense in my grip as I go down. Safety off. I cock it. If anything does fucking jump out at me it's going to die so much neither of us are going to believe it.

I make it down the next flight, then the next. The light gets brighter and brighter. As I step onto the final level I can see that there are lights on in the hall.

Fuck what if someone's here?

Should I announce myself?

Tucci. Basement.

_Who the fuck called me?_

I move forward, tracing the wall, gun still crossed hard over my flashlight. At the end of the hall I can see light coming through a window, and I head towards it, despite all better instincts. At the end of it I find an open door, and I go through it.

Then I freeze. All my blood seems to turn to ice, and I can feel my armpits sting.

_Jesus mother fuck shit fuck fuck fuck oh fuck_

_Is..._

"T...Tucci? Are you Tony Tucci?" the words coming from my mouth don't feel connected to me. I can hardly feel my feet on the floor.

There's a man strapped to table with bloody stumps for a hand and a leg. He's hooked up to what looks like an EKG, and there's surgical instruments arranged on a table just beside him.

He moves at the sound of my voice. (_He fucking moved he's alive fuck_) "Who's there?" he asks weakly. He sounds scared and small.

"Fuck," I say, running down the stairs. "Jesus christ. I'm Debra Morgan," I say. "I'm a fucking cop. Jesus shit. Are you okay?" (_of course he's not okay jesus christ he's strapped to a motherfucking table and he's missing limbs_)

"You're a cop?" he says.

"Yes," I scramble down the metal steps, my footsteps booming around the room. "Yes, I..." _What the fuck is wrong with me?_ I drop my flashlight, rip my radio off my belt. "This is Officer Debra Morgan, One Sierra Thirteen," I say, half-running to Tucci. "I need fucking back-up and an ambulance immediately at 610 South St Louis Street, the old Angel of Mercy Hospital. In the basement."

The receiver buzzes back, "One Sierra Thirteen. Officers responding."

"Thank fuck," I breathe, shoving it back in my belt. I approach the bed, not knowing what to do. "You're going to be okay," I say. (_What do I do what do I do what do I_) "It's all over. You're safe now." I reach over and pull off the blindfold.

Tucci looks around wildly, then stares at me. "Oh god," he says. He's crying. "Oh god I thought I was going to die." His words slur together.

"You're going to be okay," I say again. I touch his shoulder, then look at the straps, at his body.

"Thank you," he says. "Thank you." He keeps repeating it. He sounds delirious.

I stare. There's wires attached to his chest monitoring his heart rate, an IV line in his arm (_where his hand was cut off_). "I'm going to get these off," I assure him. I yank on the belt until I find a catch, which I quickly undo. My fingers are shaking. I go to his remaining hand and release it, then down to his foot.

The whole time he's going "Oh god, thank you, oh god, oh god."

"I..." I start. "I don't know if you should move until the paramedics get here," I say. I stare at his stump, then up to his face.

"I don't think I could get up," he says.

On impulse I walk over and grab his hand, squeeze it. "It's okay. You'll be out of here soon."

"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he says. His grip on my hand is weak, and his eyes aren't focusing on me. I wonder if he's drugged or if he's dying.

Fuck.

"What's your name?" he asks.

"Debra," I say. "Debra Morgan. I'm with the Miami PD."

He seems to try to lift his head, lets it fall again. "You're an angel, Debra Morgan."

My heart is going so hard in my chest I feel almost faint. Fuck what if he's dying? What do I do?

"Do you know if we're alone here?" I ask.

"Nothing but the rats. He was... here earlier."

Fear pings off my heart. "But not now?" I glance around. Now that the initial shock is wearing off my thoughts are starting to trickle back. Jesus fuck this is the right place. What if he's here? What if he's watching?

_Did he call me here?_

"I don't think so," he says. "I don't know. Between the blindfold and whatever he's giving me..." his voice trails off. "I don't know how long I've been here."

You don't want to know. "Are you in any pain?" I ask.

He sort of waggles his head.

I glance at his EKG. Of course it means nothing to me. I remember watching Dad's heart rate monitor but if I ever learned what normal looks like I sure as shit can't remember it now. But it doesn't look great.

I look around the room again. Standing under this spotlight I feel extremely exposed. The shadows from all the pipes feel threatening, like someone could be hiding among them.

The Ice Truck Killer was here tonight. He could still be here. He could be watching.

I release Tucci, wanting to reach for my gun, but he grabs my hand before I can pull it away. "Don't," he whispers. "Don't leave me here." The desperation in his voice claws at my heart.

Swallowing my fear, I re-take his hand with both my own. "It's okay," I say. "I'm not going anywhere." I try to give him a reassuring smile.

"How did you find me?" he asks.

"I..." I still have no fucking clue. "I got a tip," I say. "Someone called into dispatch that you were here."

He just stares at me. He looks woozy.

"Mr. Tucci?" I say. "Tony?"

"Who?" he says.

"It was..." I trail off as his eyes flutter. "Tony," I say again, squeezing his hand. "Tony?"

He sort of mumbles something, then his hand goes limp.

"Fuck," I whisper. I look at the EKG but it's not going crazy or anything. Maybe he just fell asleep.

Fuck I hope he just fell asleep.

_If you fucking die..._

I let him go, reach for my radio again. "This is One Sierra Thirteen. I need your ETA."

"About six minutes."

That seems like forever. "Received," I say, then shove it back. Part of me feels like I should go up and help direct the officers and the paramedics down here, but the rest of me is afraid to leave Tucci alone. I feel like I have to guard him.

I pull out my pistol again, go for my flashlight. After picking it up I quickly sweep the basement, but I find nothing and, more importantly, no one.

Eventually I return to Tucci. The EKG still shows his heart beat as okay (I think). I check with my fingers just to be sure, but I don't know if it's wrong. I mean, I can feel it...

I take up position just beside him, my gun still crossed over my flashlight, facing the door where I first spotted Tucci from. If someone comes in I'm going to know.

The rats have started coming out of the shadows to investigate me. I watch one come up to my boot, raise up onto its back feet and sniff. I stomp downward. The sound explodes off all the metal in the room, and they all scatter away.

Shit, they were his only company. How long has he been here?

I glance down at him, check the EKG again. Still the same.

Distant sounds attract my attention, sending fear shooting down my throat. I lift my pistol again, aim straight for the door. Within moments I can distinguish multiple sets of footsteps charging toward me. My back-up. Thank god.

I lower the pistol just as three officers come into the room. They all stop like I did, staring down at the scene.

"Shit," one of them says. The other two look at me, then the first one turns around. "Where the fuck's the paramedics?" he asks.

Within seconds more guys appear at the door: two EMTs and another officer. All of them stream down the stairs, and I holster my pistol as they come in, finally feeling safe.

"What the hell happened down here?" one of the officers ask as the paramedics check Tucci.

I ignore them. "Is he alright?"

"He's stable," one of the EMTs says. "But that could change. We need to get him to the hospital." He glances at me. "Did you do this?"

I look where he's pointing, at the bloody stumps. "No," I say.

"Is that the security guard?" another uniform asks. "Tucci?"

"Yes," I say. Now that the anxiety is gone all I can feel is the adrenaline still surging through my veins. Jesus fuck.

_Jesus fucking christ_

The cop is saying something else but I'm not listening to him. "Excuse me," I say. I half run for the stairs, reaching for my phone. Somehow by the grace of god there's a signal down here.

_Holy fuck I just fucking saved Tony Tucci_

My fingers shake as I punch the numbers. When he answers I almost give myself a concussion slamming the phone to my ear. "Dex," I say.

"Happy Halloween, Deb."

"You have no fucking idea. Have you got a fucking pen?"

He pauses, "Yeah."

"Get to the Angel of Mercy Hospital, 610 South St Louis Street. It's a fucking shithole, can't miss it."

"What happened?"

The grin that spills across my face is so wide it hurts. "I got a tip, found Tony Tucci in the basement." I feel giddy. "He's alive, Dex."

He exhales, "Wow."

"Get the fuck down here right now."

"On my way."

I click off. My limbs feel like they're filled with air, and my heartbeat is a hard staccato. I go back out through the door, look down at Tucci. The uniforms are talking in a knot while the EMTs are checking over Tucci.

I can't fucking believe it. He's going to be alright. He's going to go home. We aren't going to be finding another piece of him tomorrow, or ever. He's going to be able to walk away from this.

And I found him.

_I fucking saved him._

I've gotta call Miami Metro. LaGuerta's gonna fucking shit herself.


	28. Under Fluorescent Lights

_Under Fluorescent Lights  
><em>_Setting: "Love American Style"_

* * *

><p>My footsteps punch into the steps as I go down them, my gaze trained on the bed. Less than ten hours ago I found Tony Tucci strapped to it. Now the whole scene is completely transformed—lights and rulers and little number plaques everywhere, the rodents traded for lab rats. Under the harshness of the fluorescence the place doesn't feel quite real, like the nightmare that I walked into last night never really occurred. But I can smell Tucci's piss; the metallic tang of the pipes, and maybe of his blood.<p>

I walk over to the lockers and stop beside them to watch CSU work, turning over the night as I've been doing all morning.

The high didn't wear off until after Batista and I finished canvassing around 2AM last night, when I got home. I was so exhausted I went straight to bed, but in the dark and the quiet everything I saw here kept replaying in my head in full color. Tucci, barely lucid. The blood. His missing limbs. The EKG and the IV to keep him alive so that the killer could keep cutting into him for as long as he wanted. I kept fucking seeing all those scenes with his body parts— the way his hand and leg were positioned and photographed. Tucci was just another canvas to him.

Eventually I got up again, grabbed my scotch and poured myself a couple fingers. It did nothing to chase away the thoughts, but I cut myself off so I could have a clear head this morning. I ended up spending the night chain-smoking on my balcony, lost in dark thoughts. I couldn't stop myself from imagining the killer sawing off Tucci's limbs and wrapping up the stumps as if he gave a shit about his well-being, as if he wasn't just keeping him alive to keep the pieces fresh. I kept imagining the Ice Truck Killer showing up while I was there, and how I'd've blown him away.

And above all I kept asking myself who the fuck called me here. After awhile I started wondering if it had been _him_ for some reason, the Ice Truck Killer. I can't imagine any of my hooker contacts being around an abandoned hospital, and I can't imagine one of them leaving me some cryptic message through dispatch, especially since I gave them my card. Who else could it have been?

But why would he have called me here? Was it intended to be a trap? Or was he just bored with Tucci? If he was bored, why wouldn't he have just left him here to die? And if it was a trap, why didn't he make a move on me?

It's fucking bothering me...

More footsteps clang down the stairs. I look over.

"...heard of leptospirosis? It can cause kidney failure and meningitis and—"

"I don't want to hear another motherfucking word about the rats."

"You say that now. When we're all bleeding from our lungs you're going to wish you'd listened to me."

"Just shut the fuck up and do your job."

I watch as Doakes and Masuka step off the stairs, followed shortly by Batista and LaGuerta. Just as I'm wondering where my brother is, I see him walking down too, camera around his neck.

"Morgan," LaGuerta says when she spots me. "Come here, please."

I feel a jolt of annoyance, the thought that she might kick me off the scene for some reason popping into my head. "Lieutenant," I say, walking to her as Batista and Masuka head for the bed, nodding at me. Doakes is standing just beside her, and my gaze instantly hits on the stitches on the side of his head.

Those weren't there when he left yesterday...

"Sergeant Doakes and I had a conversation last night after you made this find," LaGuerta says, recapturing my attention. "We've decided that you're ready for active field duty. Since James doesn't have a partner he agreed to take you on."

My mouth falls open, thoughts crystallizing in shock. In my periphery vision I can see Dexter's stopped on the stairs too, probably just as surprised as me.

"Wow, I..." I say after I pull myself together. "Thank you."

"Don't thank anyone yet," Doakes says. He sounds and looks like he's in a particularly piss-poor mood this morning. "There's a reason I haven't had a partner in a year."

"Sergeant, keep things running down here," LaGuerta says, as if he didn't speak. "I'm going to go back up, take care of the press outside."

"Yeah, you've got it," he replies.

She turns and clanks back up the stairs, moving by Dexter, who's still standing there.

I look at Doakes, and I can't help staring at his stitches again. I shouldn't ask, but... "What happened to you?"

He looks at me. "Some asshole hit me with a door."

The 'bullshit' flows up my throat like vomit, but I swallow it quickly. If he's not sharing it's none of my business. Before I can say anything else he's walking away anyway.

I glance at Dexter, then sidle up to the stairs, a grin slowly climbing up my face. "Did you hear that?" I ask quietly. "I have a fucking partner."

"Wow," he says. "Looks like you're really moving up."

"Fuckin A, I'm batting a thousand," I say. "Now one of you geeks just has to find something here so my new partner and I can go find this dirtbag and nail his ass to the wall."

He lifts his camera. "We'll do our best."

I nod, and he steps off the stairs to join Masuka and Batista at the bed.

It's still strange to see the scene all lit up and filled with techs, with people I know, all combing through it. Cataloging and processing and photographing. Something intensely horrible happened down here, but the only evidence is a blood and piss soaked mattress and some tools.

But I can see him there— Tucci —can feel his clammy hand in mine, hear the pain and the terror in his voice. All he did was fucking... show up to work, and for it he spent a week in a basement getting sawed up.

It gives me the creeps.

Suddenly I have to get out, get some air, smell something besides the mattress and the dust and the pipes.

I head up the stairs, make my way back to the stairway, then go up. Rats scatter at my footfalls. They aren't really hiding from us so much as waiting for us to leave.

I reach the doors, shove them open. The parking lot is filled with cars and uniforms. Just beyond the tape there's a crowd of random pedestrians and Channel 48 news. LaGuerta is in the center of a clump of reporters. At the moment, for once, I don't feel angry with her, but something about her talking to them still bugs me. It feels disrespectful. To the media the Ice Truck Killer is a wet dream, a story that only keeps getting bigger. It doesn't matter to them what happened here, not really.

I stop under the shade of a tree, where I'm relatively hidden from anyone who isn't looking, pull a cig and my lighter from a pocket. After lighting up I watch LaGuerta talking to the reporters.

I called the hospital on the way to the scene this morning. Tucci's stable but unconscious, no signs of infection. Until (or if) we find anything here, there's nothing to be done except wait for him to wake up. Which means I'll be here.

I blow out smoke.

I wonder if he'll know anything. If it really was the Ice Truck Killer who tipped us off, then I doubt he'd've given us Tucci unless he was sure we wouldn't get anything from him. Still, after a week with him, he was bound to have seen something... heard something...

I spot Doakes coming out, who glances around. For a second we make eye contact, and I nod at him before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He dials and walks away, pressing it to his ear.

I watch. I can't believe I have a partner now. I haven't had one since I was on beat duty, and he sure as shit wasn't the sergeant of the department. I don't know whether I should consider Doakes my babysitter or not.

I take a long pull, shift my footing.

It doesn't matter. Babysitter or not, I'm going to catch this sick, arrogant prick— for all the girls he cut up, for Cherry, for Tucci.

I let the smoke billow out my nose, staring at the door to the hospital.

And for me.


	29. Questions

_Questions  
><em>_Setting: "Love American Style"_

* * *

><p>The doors open, and I step out, taking a sip of very sweet coffee. After over three hours of waiting for Tucci, I gave up— handed the head nurse my card and told her to call me the instant he wakes up, then left for the station. Who knows, maybe something turned up at the hospital I can work on.<p>

I walk to my desk, set down my purse and my drink. Before I can sit a voice interrupts me, "Morgan." I turn to see Doakes sitting at his desk. "Why aren't you still at the hospital?"

"Doctors said they gave him enough tranqs to put down a horse. I told them to call if anything changes," I paraphrase. "Since shift's almost up I felt like my time could be better served here."

He grunts, which I'm choosing to interpret as 'Okay.' I walk over, ask, "So anything turn up at the hospital?"

"Just a ton and a half of rat shit and needles," he says. "Place is clean. Either he wore gloves or he wiped the place down before you got there."

"Shit," I say, though I"m not surprised at all. If it was him who called, he would've destroyed any evidence he might've left. "So Tucci's our best lead?"

"He's our only fucking lead," he sits up in his chair. "Which is why I asked you to sit on him until he wakes up."

"I can go back right now," I say, pointing toward the doors.

He exhales, "No."

"So what can I do?"

"Batista, Soderquist and Yale are interviewing witnesses," he says. "Since the news broke on Tucci half the fucking county's saying they were near that hospital and saw something."

"Sounds like fun," I say, not meaning it in the slightest. "Why aren't you in there?"

"I've got court notes to finalize and paperwork for the Guerrero bust. But now that you're here you might as well go in there, clock some observation time. Maybe when Batista's done with his you can sit in on his next one."

"Got it," I say. Then I grin and add, "Partner."

He shoots me a look, and I scoot away, head for the interview rooms. On my way I spot Dexter through the blinds to his office, clicking through his computer. I decide to backtrack: grab my coffee and head over there. Masuka's area is swarming with techs and boxes, and Masuka himself is glued to a microscope. He doesn't notice me as I approach and open Dexter's door.

"Hey," I say, and my brother flinches, minimizes whatever he was looking at. I swear he always does that. If I didn't know him better I'd think he was coasting for porn.

"Hey, sister," he says, turning around.

"So I hear we got jackshit from the hospital?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says, almost sounding happy about it. "Place is spotless, not a drop of unaccounted for blood, not a single useful fiber."

When he says that something weird and uncomfortable squirms up my stomach. I shut the door behind me, then walk over to him.

"What?" he prompts.

I tuck some hair behind an ear. "Something's been bothering me," I say.

He waits.

"That call I got last night, that led me to Tucci?" I shift, "Do you think it might've been him? Do you think the Ice Truck Killer called me there?"

He leans back, puffs out a breath. "I... don't know."

"I keep running through it in my head," I say. "I don't know who else would've left a tip like that."

"What about one of your hooker contacts?" he suggests what I keep entertaining, keep rejecting.

"No," I shake my head. "None of my girls would've been anywhere near there. That hospital's way on the other side of the city from where they work. Even if for some reason one of them was there, why would they have gone down into that basement? Why wouldn't they have called the police instead of just requesting me?" I exhale, say what I've been thinking, "It's like Tucci was left gift-wrapped for me to find, strapped to a bed under a spotlight. What if the reason the room's so spotless is because he wiped it down, intending for us to find it?"

Dexter stares at me. "That's... wow."

I continue, "I just don't get why this fuck would call _me_, out of everyone working this case. I haven't been anywhere near the media coverage, am brand new to the department. How could he even know I exist?"

"I don't know," he says. "That sounds..."

"Crazy, I know," I interrupt. "That's why I haven't said anything. But at this point I don't know what else to think."

He seems to catch my drift, "And you were hoping I'd have an alternate explanation?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

He looks down, his hands gripping his chair between his legs. Eventually he gives a big shrug, "I don't know. You could be right."

His agreement seems to uncork something inside me. "Should I be worried he knows who I am? Do you think he called me there to trap me?"

Another shrug. He meets my eyes. "I don't know."

"Well, I almost hope that impotent shithead does try something," I say. "He'll be dead before he knows what fucking hit him."

Dexter just looks at me, "Don't be so glib, Deb."

I soften, "Yeah, sorry." And if I'm honest, the thought of being in the same room with the Ice Truck Killer fills me with a lot of conflicting feelings, somewhere between fear and rage. "I'm gonna go see if I can help with the interviews," I say after a beat. "Thanks for the talk, brother."

"Yeah, no problem," he says.

I cross the room, but before I reach the other door he says, "And I wouldn't worry, Deb. I don't think he'll come after you."

I turn. "Why not?"

He shrugs, "It was one thing going after prostitutes and a security guard. You're a cop. It would... over-complicate his life."

I study him, not sure where that came from or if he's right. "I hope you're right," I say.

He nods, and I open the door, step out. My thoughts are still stuck in the conversation as I reach the interview rooms, step up to the window to watch. Batista's interviewing some skinny guy wearing a v-neck and Buddy Holly glasses. Yale and Soderquist are talking to an overweight guy with a sweaty shirt. I hit the intercom to listen in on Batista's conversation, but I barely take in three words, still too lost in thought.

I don't know what to think. If it really was the Ice Truck Killer who called me there, I don't know how to interpret it. If he'd wanted Tucci to be found he could've called Miami Metro or someone like LaGuerta, whose face has been all over the news. If he'd seen me on scene, either in person (somehow... does he watch us?) or in the background of a news report, I'm not sure how he could've even figured out who I am, let alone my name. Why address Tucci to me of all people? Is it a threat, his way of saying 'I know who you are'? Or was he intending to grab me last night, but for some reason he decided not to try?

Or am I thinking too much into this? Could someone else have called me, someone I can't think of?

I have to let it go. All that matters is that Tucci's alive. I may never know who called me.

I just hope Dexter's right, that he wouldn't target me. At the least he's right— I'm way outside this guy's MO. Considering we don't have anything on him, going after a cop would only turn the heat on him way up, and it doesn't seem like he'd willingly make it more difficult for him to... shop for more canvas, I guess.

I clear my throat, refocus on Batista's conversation.

Maybe somehow one of these guys could help us.

I listen to V-neck's stutter, note the quavery way he keeps tapping his fingers together.

Then again maybe not.


	30. Second-Guess

_Second-Guess  
><em>_Setting: "Love American Style"_

* * *

><p>I watch Doakes walk to LaGuerta's office, half shut the door behind him. I wasn't wrong. I'm <em>not<em> wrong. I still believe that.

(_"What the fuck were you thinking?"_)

Okay, it was tactless. I fucked up. But I _know_ Tucci could tell us something... It was just the wrong time, the wrong way, to ask.

I push to my feet, head back to the interview room, trying to shove all my feelings down, trying to breathe away the shame and the anger. I stop outside the door to compose myself, put on a blank face, then open it. The second I walk in Perry freezes, turns to look at me, looking guilty as shit.

"I was just, uh... looking at your camera," he says. "I was right. KG-230."

I just look at him for a second. I hate to admit it, but Doakes is probably right: this guy's the biggest fucking dweeb I've met in recent memory. I have a hard time believing he would've been anywhere near that hospital at night. Still, I can't help but ask, "You see anyone else in that book who seems familiar?"

He shakes his head, "No, I... I don't know. It was dark. Hard to make out his face with the... cap and all."

God, fuck me, fuck Doakes, fuck this asshole. "Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Perry," I say. "If you remember anything else, please call. You have a card?"

"Right here," he pats his pocket.

"I'll show you out."

"Great, thanks."

I go to the table, grab the mug book and slam it closed. Then I walk to the door and open it wider, gesture for him to go. He does.

As we walk he keeps glancing at me. "So you were at the crime scene yesterday?" he asks eventually.

I fucking found the crime scene. "Yes," I say.

"Did you see that security guard?"

I give him a look.

"I'm just... curious, you know, I mean, since I was there and all. So close."

"Yeah, I saw him," I say, then stop outside the elevator doors, stab the button. The doors open immediately, and as much as I don't want to I step inside. He follows. I hit close and '1,' then hold them until the doors shut again.

"That must've been traumatic."

This time I just say nothing.

Thankfully he's silent for a few beats, then, "I can't believe I was so close to that and had no idea."

I give him a fake, disinterested smile. Two seconds later the doors open. "Hand the desk sergeant your visitor's badge on your way out," I say, pointing in his general direction. "Good night, Mr. Perry."

"Sorry I couldn't be of more help, Officer," he says, stepping out.

"It's okay," I say, then punch the buttons again. I watch him walk away until the doors shut, then I let my gaze slip to the floor. Within half a minute I'm walking to the break area, wanting coffee. Doakes is still in LaGuerta's office. I can hear their voices through her window.

Everyone else is pretty much out of here. Dexter left a little early with Batista to get drinks. I might've gone too if Perry hadn't walked in. (Could he have known something? Was Doakes too quick to rush to judgment? Should I have walked him through the book more or was it right to follow orders and dump him out of the station?)

(Fuck if I know...)

I grab my mug off the drying rack, fill it with coffee and half a ton of powdered coffeemate. Once it's good and white, I take a sip and walk to my desk. As I sit my hair starts to pull, so I reach up, take out the pencil I had twisted in there earlier to pull it into a half pony. My hair falls out, and I set the pencil down, fluff it slightly. Then I grab my mouse, click through to my email. Nothing. Next my phone. Nothing there either (though what did I expect?).

I pull out the stack of folders in my desk. Copies of all the Ice Truck Killer stuff. Lately I've been flipping through it all over and over until the details seer themselves into my eyes, just hoping to find something we missed. I had thought that tonight we'd have more than just 'white' and 'average build' to go on. I'd felt so optimistic this morning when the hospital called, was so looking forward to talking to Tucci that I was practically vibrating in my seat as Doakes drove us down. Is he right? Did I fuck any chance we had of getting a lead out of Tucci?

I stare blindly at the report on our remaining Jane Doe, the one who was found at Bayfront Park and whose autopsy I attended.

No, I don't believe that. Maybe today was the wrong day to go at him so hard, but I know Tucci knows something, and I know he could handle our questions. A lot of that smiling act was probably a front, but not _all_ of it. The guy's stronger than Doakes gives him credit for. The fact that he could even smile at all after what he went through is a testament to that. If it had been me, I don't know if I ever would've been the same after something like that, let alone cracking jokes the next day.

I'll need to talk to Doakes, convince him to take another run at Tucci. He's still our only lead. After spending half the day jerking off with Batista's potential witnesses, I'd think he'd be just as aggressive as me in wanting to try to get something out of the only guy we know for a fact was actually around the killer.

I flip through the shots from the Doe crime scene, skim the coroner's report for the thousandth time. I practically know it by heart at this point, but it bugs me that we still have no idea who she is.

"Morgan," I hear, and I look up to see Doakes standing over me. His jacket's slung over his arm.

"Yeah?" I say, raising my brows at him.

"You take care of Perry?"

"Yep."

He nods, "Good. Go on home. It's getting late."

I want to argue with him. "Alright," I say instead.

"See you in the morning." He walks away, takes the stairs down. I glance from him to LaGuerta's office, notice she looks like she's packing it in too.

I don't want to go home. There's nothing waiting for me there except a mess and frozen food and a cold bed. Then again there's nothing for me here either. The Ice Truck Killer's my only case, and currently our only lead is sitting in a bed eating fruit cups.

Exhaling, I shut the folder, put it and the rest back into my drawer, then stand. My purse is in another drawer, and I pull out and set it on my desk. Grabbing my coffee, I take a couple long, big gulps, then walk back toward the break area to rinse the mug out.

Who knows, maybe the Ice Truck Killer really did call me to that scene, just to fuck with us some more by leaving us a live victim who can't tell us anymore than the dead ones. But I know in my gut that Tucci'll be able to help us. We just have to ask him the right way.

God I hope so, anyway. All this treading water is driving me up the fucking wall.

I set the mug back in the drying rack, turn for my desk.

Maybe it's good I'm going home. I need some fucking beer.


	31. Concession

_Concession  
><em>_Setting: "Love American Style"_

* * *

><p>And another day ends. Another day of nothing, that is.<p>

I flip a page in Masuka's fiber report. I just got the cliffnotes from him twenty minutes ago, but curiosity and idleness bid me look through it. Going after the manufacturer of the sheets was a bust— just standard low-thread count white sheets, on stock at any Kmart, Target, Bed Bath & Beyond, whatever. The surgical tools were a bit more specific than generic sheets, but ultimately they could've been purchased from a medical supply store or off the internet. Ditto for the IV bags (antibiotics and painkillers). We're still not sure about the EKG machine since the serial number was scratched off, though for all we know it came from somewhere in the hospital.

Everything else that's been gone through has been just as useless— rat corpses and turds; needles with drug residue from upstairs (mostly heroin, though whoever left them was probably long gone by the time we got there); hair, fibers, fluids from Tucci. Unless Masuka's right and the rats really did move evidence into their hidey holes, the whole building's gonna end up giving us jack shit.

It pisses me off.

I shut the report, glance sideways at Doakes' empty desk. He left this afternoon for court, still refusing to budge on the Tucci issue, and he'll be gone again in the morning. I'm sure if he would've let me go down today by myself or with someone else I would've walked away with something, but instead I spent most of the day helping to demolish Batista's 'potential witness' list while hoping that something would finally break forensically.

My gaze travels right, lands on Batista himself, who's leaning heavily on his hand, looking like death warmed over. His hangover's been chasing him all day, and it looks like it finally caught up to him. I'd feel sorry for him if it wasn't so funny watching him chug so much water.

I hear footsteps behind me, look away from Batista to see Dexter walking out of his office, bag over his shoulder.

"Hey," I say as he approaches, leaning back. "Heading off?"

"Yeah, finished my reports so..." he trails off, looking like he wants to ask me something.

"What's with the face?" I prompt.

"Just... Rita. I think I..." he cuts himself off, seems to change his mind about something. "You know any good movies? Something light?"

A grin breaks across my face. I laugh, "Me? You remember who you're talking to, right?"

He stares at me almost helplessly, "Right."

"I can't even fucking remember the last time I actually sat down and watched a movie," I say. "I don't know, Dex. Stop by Blockbuster, pick up something from the rom-com section." The thought of Dexter sitting through a rom-com makes me grin a little wider.

"I can do that..." he trails off, apparently lost in his thoughts.

"So I guess you already have plans for dinner then?" I ask, trying to sound casual about it.

He refocuses on me, "Yeah, I do. Sorry, Deb."

"I wasn't asking," I say defensively, though I kind of was.

"If you're looking for something to do, you could always get out, see the inside of some other walls for a change."

I feel the grin slip away. "Would you lay off? Jeez, you never used to pry so much."

He looks at me earnestly, "Just looking out for you. You've been living and breathing this case since the transfer. I just think it wouldn't hurt you to take some time for yourself, have fun."

For some reason I glance past Dexter, notice Batista's obviously listening to our conversation. I meet his bloodshot gaze, and he quickly busies himself with something on his desk. "I'll find me a life," I say to Dexter. "Just not tonight or tomorrow or anytime soon. Don't worry it."

"Alright," he holds up the hand on his bag in surrender. "Night then, Deb."

"Night," I say.

After he walks away, I look at Batista, who's still pretending to be doing something. Eventually he glances up, meets my eyes again.

"What?" I say, hearing the elevator ding somewhere behind me.

"Nothing," he says. "You're free to lead your life however you want."

Between him and Dex and Masuka the peanut gallery never shuts the fuck up around here.

"Uh huh," I look back down at my desk, wishing there actually was something here to work on. It's unbelievably frustrating to have found (or to have been given) something as promising as a building which we know for a fact the Ice Truck Killer had been using for an extended amount of time and to come away with nothing but a mountain of non-evidence.

"Well," I glance back to see Batista creaking to his feet, crushing another water bottle as he does. "I'm gonna get home, have a bit more of the hair of the dog, you know?"

"Yeah," I say. I watch as he slowly gathers stuff from his desk, then shuffles for the elevator, exchanging a goodbye with me on his way. Going home to his wife. Dexter to his girlfriend. I see other officers joining Batista at the elevator: half of them are married. I wonder percentage-wise how many of us don't have someone waiting at home, or waiting to meet up for dinner.

I glance left, toward LaGuerta's office. She's still in there.

Well, that's at least two of us.

Fuck do I not want to be her...

In annoyance, I grab Masuka's report and toss it in my desk along with all the other Ice Truck Killer stuff. One last check of my email shows me nothing except this morning's memo about handwriting in regards to official documents, which I delete. Then I just sit for a beat before a feeling of defeat creeps up my chest.

Fine... I give up.

I log off, shut down, grab my shit. I'm halfway to the elevator when my phone rings. Stopping, I dig around for it, then pull it out. I don't recognize the number.

"Morgan," I answer.

"It's Doakes," I hear.

Why the fuck would he be calling me? Before something petulant can spring to my lips, he's speaking. "Listen," he says. "I've been thinking about what you said this morning."

I blink. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," he says. "You're right. Tucci's the best lead we have, and we need to talk to him again. But," he preemptively cuts me off, "You need to find a fucking pair of kid gloves."

"I think there's some in a box lying around somewhere," I say.

"Good, coz you're talking lead tomorrow."

I feel my mouth fall open. "What?"

"Tucci's built a connection to you," he says. "If we're going to get anything out of him we need to use that. Besides," he exhales into the phone, "He was your find. You've earned it."

"You're shitting me," I breathe, feeling suddenly a little giddy.

"You're still a fucking pain in the ass."

I can't stop it, "Yeah, so are you."

There's silence on the other end of the line. (_Shit_)

"Sergeant," I add to try to pull my foot out of my mouth, as if it makes any difference.

"I should be out of court by 11. Pick me up and we'll go straight to the hospital from there."

"Yeah, okay, great."

"I'll see you tomorrow then, Morgan."

"Yeah. Uh, bye."

He clicks off, and I do the same. Then I sort of grin down at my phone for a second.

I'm taking _lead_ with _Tucci._ Doakes is giving me a second chance with this, and I won't let either of us down. By lunch tomorrow, if there is a god, we'll have a lead.

I look around. Goddammit, just me, no one to celebrate this moment with. Not that getting to take another run because of a fuck-up is really anything to celebrate...

I walk over to the elevator, hit the button.

Suddenly it doesn't really matter anymore that I'm going home to a silent apartment, and it doesn't matter that the day was spent wasted on people who either live around the hospital and saw nothing or people who claimed they'd walked by it and seen 'some guy' in the shadows. If Doakes is willing to concede then maybe he finally heard me, and maybe he might come to respect my opinions. And most importantly, maybe Tucci will be able to give us something that'll finally put this dirtbag in the ground.

The elevator doors open, and I step inside.

Tomorrow can't come soon enough.


	32. Blindfold

_Blindfold  
><em>_Setting: "Love American Style"_

* * *

><p>My thoughts swirl as I get into the passenger side of my car, direct my gaze out the window. Doakes turns over the engine in silence, then pulls out of the hospital parking lot. I wonder if this is bothering him too, all that shit we just heard.<p>

Jesus.

When I close my eyes I can almost be standing up on that metal railing again, looking down on Tucci where he was strapped to the table. I can almost smell the musk of mold spores and dust again, the sharp, metallic notes from the pipes, and possibly from the blood. Besides the Ice Truck Killer himself, I'm the only one who saw that scene undisturbed. And unfortunately I can imagine everything that Tucci just described to us. I can imagine standing up there on that railing, watching helplessly as some shadowy figure unwraps a lozenge and pops it into his mouth, turns on a small rotary saw, holds down to Tucci's arm and presses the blade to his skin. The sound of him screaming. The sight of the blood spraying everywhere as steel meets arteries and bone. Jesus, he was awake for it. Did he watch as his hand came off? Did that sick fuck show it to him after?

No, he couldn't have... he was blindfolded...

Jesus christ. He probably had no idea what was about to happen until he heard the saw, until he felt him hold down his hand, until he felt the blade tearing into his skin.

Jesus fuck.

And then the next day he came back for his foot. And then again for his shin. When he heard me come in, did he think I was coming to take another piece of...

"You alright?"

"What?" I clear my throat, looking over at Doakes, process what he said. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"That was some heavy shit," the sergeant says, his eyes still trained on the road. It occurs to me I don't know where we are or how long we've been driving in silence. "It doesn't matter how long you've been doing this. Hearing something like that can fuck anyone up."

"Well, I'm fine," I say.

He glances at me, and from the look on his face he obviously can see through me. I expect him to press the point, but when he opens his mouth next all he says is, "It's lunch. Want to pick something up before we head back to the hospital?"

I can't really tell if what I'm feeling in my stomach is from hunger or from nausea. Who knows, maybe a little of both. "Sure," I say.

He nods, slows, takes a right. For awhile we just continue in silence, and inevitably I start thinking about Tucci again. I can't believe he can smile, has the strength to sleep alone. Just the thought of what he went through is going to keep me up tonight. Actually going through it? Christ, in his shoes I would've been a hysterical wreck...

I refocus on reality as I feel the car stop, realize we're in a parking lot in a strip mall.

"What do you want?" Doakes asks. He points around at the various restaurants and shops walling us in. "Not the sushi."

I glance at him, then around the mall. The thought of sushi is kind of repulsive. Then again the thought of food is kind of repulsive. I swallow, shrug a little helplessly, "I don't care. Something light."

He looks at me, then leans forward over the wheel. "That place looks like it's got sandwiches and stuff." He indicates the cafe directly in front of us.

I try to stick a smile on my face, lighten my tone, "Yeah, sounds good."

We get out, walk there together. It's drizzling slightly, and everything smells like wet pavement and gasoline. A warm rain that feels more like the next step up from the one hundred percent humidity.

When we step inside the cafe it's half-full, cool and dry. Under the clinking of silverware and ceramic is some steady, vaguely rhythmic jazz song. All over the walls are weird abstract paintings and landscapes for sale. The banality of it all is jarring. Then again horrible things happen every day. Doesn't mean the world stops turning.

I realize suddenly that the chick behind the register is looking at me expectantly. I haven't even glanced at the menu. I don't know. "You have a caesar salad?" I ask. "With chicken?"

She smiles at me, all chipper. "Sure do."

"Great," I say. "With lots of dressing."

"Something to drink?"

I don't kno... "Just water."

She nods and pulls out a plastic pitcher full of ice and water. "That'll be twelve forty-eight, please."

"Oh, we're not—" I start to say.

Doakes cuts me off, hands her a ten and a five. "Here."

She makes his change, hands it back, all the while her face holding that easy-breezy smile. She looks sweet, a thousand miles away from all the horror we're taking a break from. "It'll be just a few minutes. Here's your cups." She holds out two plastic to-go cups. Doakes takes them both, pulls the first out of the second, and hands me mine. I grab the pitcher and follow him as he goes to the soda fountain and fills it with coke.

"You didn't have to do that," I say.

"I know," he says. "Go find a seat."

I look at the back of his head a moment, or more specifically at those mysterious stitches, then turn and find a table. I go for the most isolated one, a small table near the window. Once I get there I sit, pour myself some water and drink it, watch the rain mist the cars.

"If you want to know, this shit still bothers me," Doakes says as he appears suddenly, plopping into his chair. "Taking statements from witnesses, making notifications. But it gets easier to compartmentalize."

I look at him. His sincerity surprises me. He's never struck me as the type to bond. "I just can't believe he lived through all that and survived," I say. "I can't imagine..."

"Don't," he says. "Just don't go there. It's not your job. That's what shrinks and his family are for. You have to keep a clear head, because at the end of the day we're the ones who are going to find this cocksucker and haul his ass in. It's a thousand times harder to do that when you're invested. Believe me, I know."

I study him, wondering what he's talking about. I've heard some rumors about him and Kara Simmons, but as I sit here I don't want to know if they're true, because if they are then it's _really_ none of my business.

"It's okay to be upset," he continues, oblivious to my thoughts. "No one at the station is going to judge you. Frankly, if you didn't have a reaction there'd be something wrong with you. But you have to be able to walk away from a scene, because we're cops, not social workers."

"I know," I say, lifting my chin a little.

"You've done really good work since you got here, Morgan," he says. "With some training you might make a great addition to Homicide. You're certainly stubborn enough."

At that I grimace.

He ignores it. "Just take things as they come." He takes a sip from his plastic cup. "And hopefully Masuka'll find something at that damn hospital."

I look at him for a long moment, taking a drink myself. The water tastes interesting, like it's got cucumber in it or something. "Thanks," I say, putting the cup down.

"Well, if we're gonna be stuck together we might as well get along. Even if you are a fucking pain in the ass."

I grin at him, "It's too late. You've already shown me your soft side."

He gives me a look, "I don't have a soft side."

"See, you say that..." my words trail off as some guy in a black, logo'd t-shirt appears at our table with two plates. We both look up at him.

"I've got a caesar salad and a pastrami sandwich."

"Salad's mine," I say.

He nods and sets both plates in front of us. "Enjoy," he says, then quickly makes his way away. Maybe he sensed he was interrupting, or maybe he spotted the bulge of Doakes' piece under his armpit.

"Thanks for lunch," I say, unwrapping my fork from its napkin.

He waves me off.

We eat quietly. I think about what he said. It's one thing to talk about compartmentalization, but it's another to sit there and listen to somebody recount something that only seems possible in some trashy movie, in some non-reality. I don't know if I believe in Evil, capital 'e,' but it's the only word that seems to fit this sick fuck we're hunting, whoever he is.

For Tucci I can shut my heart in a box— for him and all these dead women.

I skewer a piece of chicken with my fork, eat it.

Now I just hope to fuck that making him recount that memory to us will be worth it. We can't walk away from that hospital with nothing.


	33. A Favor

_A Favor  
><em>_Setting: "Love American Style"_

* * *

><p>"To Debra Morgan," Batista shouts over the trumpet. "Who blew into Homicide and gave us our first real lead on this case."<p>

Glasses go up all around me. I grin, face on fire as half my new department says my name. We all down our shots together. The second they're gone, Batista turns to the barkeep. "Another round for my friends," he says.

It's surreal to be standing here like this, to have spent the evening being acknowledged and congratulated, when just a few weeks ago I was terrified that I was never going to get this transfer, that I'd be booted back to Vice and no one would ever see me as anything more than a pair of legs. Now in the course of a few days I have a partner and a lead, and suddenly I'm accepted. All these guys insisted on taking me out tonight to celebrate the break in the case, to officially welcome me into Homicide.

I'm in. After years of wanting nothing but this, I'm finally, really in Homicide.

"Here," Batista hands me a fresh shot. "Drink."

I obey, savor the heat that blooms up and down my throat. Ramos and Bliloc appear at my elbow, both now gripping beers, and just like that we're making conversation, as easily as if a few weeks ago they hadn't been loudly speculating about my relationship with Matthews (which, whatever, water under the bridge). Suddenly them and everyone else wants to tell me about their experiences first coming into Homicide, their voices blending with the loud Cuban music being played a couple yards away. For the first time since the whole Sean... thing, or possibly since I started working on this case, I finally relax.

But the feeling doesn't last, and I switch to water as other, darker thoughts tug at the back of my mind. Eventually people start breaking away in clumps to go home, bidding the rest of us goodbye. I take the opportunity to leave with the third group, thanking Batista for the drinks. He smiles at me from his stool, looking like he has every intention of staying, and if it weren't for the increasingly relentless feeling in the pit of my stomach, I'd stay with him and drink. Instead I bow out, separate from Yale, Soderquist, and Lopez at the parking lot, and get into my car.

It's as I shut the door that all those feelings finally wash over me.

Tony Tucci.

I know what Doakes said: I can't let myself get invested. But through the day I couldn't stop myself from thinking about him. We're all excited about the print, but I can't forget the story that led us to it. I keep imagining lying there blind, listening to the Ice Truck Killer crinkle the very wrapper we found, helpless to do anything but wait as he picks what part of my body to saw off and then does it, keeping me awake so, what, I can fully appreciate the control he has over me? So he can hear me scream? (Is that what he did to his other victims?) While I'm out being toasted for pressing Tucci into telling us his story, Tucci himself is lying in a hospital bed being fitted for prosthetics, probably wondering if his life could ever be like it was just a few weeks ago.

It feels wrong because it is.

And I keep thinking about what he said, that I'm probably the last woman who would flirt with him. Since he said that an idea's been floating around my head, and I don't know if it's a good idea but it's _an_ idea, and it seems like the only thing I can do...

Exhaling, I pull out my phone, then dig around my purse for the post-it she wrote her number on a few days ago. I finally find it stuck to the wall of the side pouch. Once it's out I just stare at it, wondering what the fuck I'm thinking. Then I dial.

She takes so long to answer I almost hang up, then, "Hello?"

"Shanda," I say.

"Well, hey, Cagney," she says. "What's up? You change your mind? Gonna fuck up my landlord or what?"

I don't know if I regret this or not. "Shanda, I can't fuck him up," I say. "I'm a police officer, not a mob enforcer."

"Hnuh," she clucks.

"But that doesn't mean I can't talk to him, see if I can't fuck up his day a little." I try to figure out how to phrase my request, "But in return I was hoping you could do me a favor?"

"Mm hm. What'cha want, chica?" I can hear rap music booming distantly in the background.

How do I say this? "You been following the news?"

"You mean about that Ice Truck fuck?" she says. "Yeah. Can't walk by a newsstand without seeing something."

"You remember hearing about the security guard we found a few days ago? Tony Tucci?"

She pauses, "Yeah."

"Would you be willing to..." I grope for words, "see him?"

Another pause. "You want me to fuck that rentacop?"

What am I doing? "I... I just want someone to give him some attention," I say. "The guy's been through hell, Shanda. You can't even imagine..." I trail off, since I _have_ been imagining.

She's silent for awhile. "If I do this you'll talk to my landlord?"

I can't believe she's agreeing. "I'm off-shift tomorrow," I say. "If he's carrying I'll even haul him into booking for you."

"Then we're even," she says. "Honestly, I've seen the news. I feel sorry for that poor bastard. Is it true he lost a hand and a foot?"

"Yeah, it's true," I shift in my seat.

"That's some twisted shit." I hear her adjust the phone. "Listen, I'm in front of the botanica. You come pick me up, I'll do whatever you want to that security guard."

Jesus, it was that easy. And completely illegal. Here I am sitting in the parking lot after drinking with half the fucking cops in Homicide. "I'll be there in twenty minutes," I say.

"I'll look out for you."

We hang up. For a moment I just sit here, wondering what the hell I'm doing, but it already feels done to me, and strangely it's almost a relief. I don't know if this is even appropriate but I can't stand the thought of doing nothing. Maybe it's because I'm the one who found him, maybe it's because that bond between us Doakes was talking about got formed both ways, I don't know.

I turn over the engine, flip on the lights and my wipers. It's raining lightly but steadily as I leave the bar, make my way north.


	34. At a Salvage Yard in Opa-locka

_At a Salvage Yard in Opa-locka  
><em>_Setting: "Return to Sender"_

* * *

><p><em>AN: This is the last thing I'll be posting for about a week, since I'm going on vacation up north and I don't think I'll have internet. Think I'm getting back on the 25th, not sure yet, but posting'll resume then.  
>Thanks for your eyeballs!<em>

"Turn around, Morgan," Doakes says, flipping shut his phone. "Crime scene. I was just about to call you."

I stop barely six feet from the elevator, staring as him and a bunch of other cops head in my direction. "Jesus, where's the fire?" I say.

Doakes moves by me, stabs the elevator button. "Got an anonymous tip through dispatch this morning," he says. "Sent out a few uniforms to follow up. We've got a possible new Ice Truck Killer victim. Another woman."

All the heat in my limbs seems to evaporate. "What? Where?"

"At an auto salvage yard up in Opa-locka," he says. The doors finally open, and we step inside, along with the other cops, who all nod and smile at me. Ramos is holding a half-eaten bagel with what smells like lox piled on top.

"A salvage yard?" I repeat to Doakes as we descend. That doesn't seem nearly as public as the other dump locations.

"Yeah," he says. "Masuka's packing up his kit, so Forensics will be right behind us. If this really is the Ice Truck Killer again we've gotta lock down that crime scene tight before the press can get anywhere near it."

"Happy fucking Monday," I mutter, sipping my coffee.

He glances at me, then looks back at the door. We say nothing more to each other as we head out of the station and into the parking lot, beyond his "I'll drive." I wonder how much more he knows than he's saying, but at the moment I'm fine to wait to find out. Just thinking about the Ice Truck Killer fills me with a sloshy mix of excitement and dread, like I'm standing with my toes hanging just off the edge of a cliff. Another dead woman. What happened to her? If she could, would she tell another story like Tucci's? (Was she alive and awake when he started to cut her up?)

I take another sip of coffee. In the quiet moments of my weekend all I could seem to fucking think about was Tucci's story. After not sleeping Friday night, it was almost a pleasure to meet Shanda outside her building to harass the 300 pound walrus who manages her building— maybe because it was so easy. All it really took was making some vague (empty) threats about calling for a building code inspection and searching the premise for controlled substances for him to back off.

It was the most in control of anything I've felt in awhile.

I adjust in my seat, kind of wanting a smoke but knowing Doakes would probably kick me into outcoming traffic if I tried. So instead I search for something to break the silence. "How was your weekend?" is what I settle on.

He glances at me. "It passed."

"That bad, huh?"

He just sort of glowers at the road.

"It's okay," I say. "Mine... passed too."

Another glance. And that's pretty much it for conversation, I know.

I stretch my legs against the floor, finish my coffee, stare at the road, wait for us to get where we're going. It's not until we merge off the freeway that that little niggling sense of giddy dread climbs up my stomach and curls around my heart. By the time we pull up to a green and white sitting on the curb outside a high metal fence, my heart is practically twisting under the pressure.

"Make sure no one without a badge makes it any closer than this," Doakes says to the uniforms in the car, then pulls through the gate. He parks outside a sheet metal fence with about a thousand axles sticking over it, and we both get out at the same time. The air smells like rust.

"You found the body?" Doakes asks a uniform standing by the open gate, who looks a little pale.

"Yes, sir," he says. He points behind him, at what looks like a 70s Airstream. "She's in there."

We both look at it, and then I glance at Doakes. A trailer in a salvage yard? This is about as not-public as it gets. But he doesn't look at me, just nods and starts forward. I follow him through the aisle of dead cars, feeling my trepidation mount. The door's open when we reach it.

"Here," Doakes holds out a pair of gloves, then steps inside. I snap them on, then follow him up, stop immediately.

Jesus.

A woman— a whole woman, not body parts —is lying naked on a table, so straight and rigid it reminds me of how corpses are positioned in the morgue. Under her is a red and white plastic table cloth. From here I can't see how she died, but I can't see a speck of blood anywhere. All around her is the filth of this junker, but the place where she's been laid out looks completely spotless.

"What a fucking dump," Doakes says, walking around to the woman's left. His words seem to unstick me, and I go right. As I get closer I can see her neck, the deep gouges on either side. Cuts to sever all the major arteries. I almost reach up to touch my own neck but catch myself, let my hand fall.

And on her cheek, a single, long cut, all purpled by bruises (or lividity?).

"This isn't right," I say. "This isn't the Ice Truck Killer."

Doakes glances at me. "How do you figure?"

I make an all-encompassing gesture, "Look at her, look at this place. After sectioning up six people and leaving their body parts all over downtown, why would he cut this chick's throat and leave her on a table in a salvage yard in the middle of bumfuck Opa-locka?" The way she's laid out though... so clean and bloodless.

"Yeah, can't say I disagree," he says.

But despite what I said I reach over her and hold my hand there, try to feel anything coming off her skin. And maybe I'm just imagining it, but I do.

Cold.

"What're you doing?"

Before I can answer, there's a creak behind us, and we both glance back to see Masuka coming in with a little black case.

"Morning, Sergeant. Morgan," he says and grins at me. I roll my eyes as his gaze comes to rest on the dead woman. "Wow, look at those tits." That's not where he's looking though.

Doakes glares at him. "Just shut up and take her prints," he says.

Feeling thoroughly grossed out, I move for the door so Masuka can have access. Back here the smell is even stronger: reminds me of a public bathroom. I don't even want to know if this thing has or had a toilet (do Airstreams have toilets?). But I stand still, watch Masuka lift her hand. "Rigor's come and gone," he says. "Looks like she was dumped."

"Does she feel cold to you?" I ask.

He glances at me. "I don't know. I need to check her body temp. Can't take it until Dexter and his camera show up though." He pops open his case and pulls out some sort of kit.

I watch as he unpacks some things and starts printing her. Doakes does as well, but abruptly at her second finger he moves away. "I've gotta direct the team," he says, looks at me. "Morgan, watch Masuka, Make sure he doesn't decide to fuck the body or something."

"Please, I have access to plenty of warm bodies," Masuka says as Doakes clomps out of the trailer, not looking up from his fingers, "I'll have you know I had not one but _two_ hotties on their..."

"Stop," I say. "He's gone."

"I know," he says, and this time he does look up and around, at me.

I meet his annoying, smiling face, several possible responses popping into my head. "A little respect please," I say, settling on civil. "Considering you're standing over a dead woman."

"And a fine one she is," he says, still grinning like the perverted little freak he is, but at least he goes back to doing what he's supposed to be doing.

I pull on one of my gloves, cross my arms, stare at the dead woman.

Even if this isn't the Ice Truck Killer, it's still fucking weird. I don't know if the table she's on was in this trailer originally, but considering the state of the cushions and the walls and everything else in this shitheap, I'd be surprised if it had been. The plastic table cloth looks new and clean. No blood, no signs of a struggle. Obvious dump— but not a dump, a _display._ She was killed and brought here, laid out on this table nude for someone (us?) to find. And then there's that weird cut on her cheek...

Could it be him? Or someone else?

I stare at her. No track marks or tattoos, nice nails. Looks like she got regular mani-pedis. She doesn't look like a hooker. Who is she, and how did she end up here? _Why_ did she end up here, like this? Clearly someone wanted her to be seen...

"Right," Masuka breaks through my thoughts, snapping something I can't see closed and tossing it in his case, which he picks up. "I'm gonna go get these running." He holds up a plate in a plastic baggie.

I smile-grimace at him as he heads out of the trailer, leaving me alone.

For a second I don't move, then I step closer, toward the body. I don't really know what I'm looking for, but this just feels... off, in the same way the Ice Truck Killer scenes felt, even though she hasn't been cut into pieces.

I stop and look down at her cheek, at that weird, long cut. Not that I know shit about forensics, but it looks like it was done in a clean, quick, single sweep. Almost like she wasn't moving when it happened, almost like it was done when she was already dead.

I stare at it.

And why do that?


	35. Copycat Killer

_Copycat Killer  
><em>_Setting: "Return to Sender"_

* * *

><p><em>AN: Thank you, Google, for vomiting up all the deets on Etorphine Hydrochloride (M-99). Also, back from my internet/computer starved vacation._

I open the door, flick on the lights, head immediately to my coffee table and dump all the shit I'm carrying on it. For the first time in weeks, it doesn't bother me that I came home to an empty apartment and a barren fridge. Hell, I'm actually a little glad for it, coz tonight I need the quiet.

I go to my sink, quickly rinse out the glass I left in here yesterday, then fill it with tap water. Turning, I yank open my freezer door and pull out the ice tray, which I slam against the counter, too impatient to be gentle about it. Little bits of ice fly everywhere. I bend and pick up the biggest pieces off the floor, chuck them in my sink, then grab a couple cubes and drop then in my glass. Shove the tray back into the fridge and slam the door.

Then into my bedroom to change into a tank and a pair of sweats. Within a minute I'm back in my living room, settling cross-legged on the floor and reaching for the stack of reports I picked up at the station when Doakes dropped me off.

This case is fucking insane.

I spread everything out in front of me, separate it into two stacks: Jorge Castillo and Valerie Castillo. Then I pull my laptop off the table and turn it on, feed it the USB stick I got off Masuka. We've been out the whole fucking day... I haven't even seen a lot of this stuff yet. And I don't know if I'm hopeful or not that all this is going to fit with my theory.  
>Because, really, there are only two options here: Jorge Castillo killed his wife, or someone else did, and I can't stop thinking that that someone else may've been emulating the Ice Truck Killer.<p>

Ignoring Jorge's stack for now, I grab the forensics reports from the salvage yard and the autopsy report. When my laptop wakes up, I click through to the USB and double click the first picture in the set, hit F11. On my screen is a shot of the scene from the entrance to the salvage yard. I tap ahead until I get to the first shot of Valerie Castillo's body, stop, then flip open the autopsy report. The first few pages are large color shots of her body in the morgue laid out on the coroner's table, eerily similar to how she was left at the scene.

I move past them, skim the report. COD, hypovolemia— she bled out from her neck wounds. No defensive marks, no trace, no fibers from any clothing, no nothing, almost like she was showered off before she was laid out. Besides the cuts to her neck and the puncture from the drug used to knock her out, there's only that weird mark on her cheek. It was made perimortem. She could've been alive or dead when it was done. (_But why was it done?_)

I grab Masuka's report on the drug: Etorphine Hydrochloride. He said it was an animal tranquilizer?

I reach for my laptop, cancel out of the slideshow and open up Google. Type it into the search bar and hit the second link. _" Although newer and more desirable opiates have been developed (carfentanil, A3080), etorphine is still the drug of choice for exotic equids, rhino, and other hoof stock... Etorphine's potent opiate agonist activity produces rapid reversible immobilization at low dose rates... A 5–15 mg dose is enough to immobilize an African elephant and a 2–4 mg dose is enough to immobilize a Black Rhino."_

Jesus, if Jorge killed his wife, what the hell was he doing with something like this? Was he using it against the people he was smuggling in?

Or was it someone else entirely who drugged her? Someone who had to put her down before he could take her wherever he took her and killed her? That boy we found in the salvage yard, Oscar, he said he saw someone abduct Valerie Castillo, but he didn't recognize Jorge.

I can't fucking wait for Masuka's DEA list to come in tomorrow, because I know whose name isn't going to be on it...

I close Google and go back to looking through Dexter's pictures. Everything about the way she's laid out is just weird, clean, and neat: a place setting in the middle of trailer that probably hasn't seen use since 1976. Even if he hated her, what kind of a person would clean out this junker, bring in a table, buy a tablecloth, set up his wife on it, and run? Why would he cut her cheek? Why would he drug her? He has a boat for god's sake. If he wanted her dead, why not just weight her and toss her in the ocean? Why leave her in his own salvage yard for... whoever found her to find?

He wouldn't, because he didn't do it. I don't know where the fuck he is— hell, maybe he's dead too —but I can feel it as I look at these pictures. Someone else did this. Someone who... wanted to do this, who found it exciting. He took his time creating a display, probably for the same reason the real Ice Truck Killer does: because it was fun.

I start scribbling this down on a random pad of paper.

The scenes are so similar in so many ways that even though she wasn't cut up I still can't get it out of my mind that Valerie Castillo's murder is somehow related to the Ice Truck Killer. The media coverage's been non-stop since Cassandra Mendoza was found in that pool. Like I told Doakes, I think this must be a copycat, some other sick fuck who's been inspired by all the grisly details the press has been jerking off to for the past month. He drugged her and he took her somewhere quiet to kill her, bled her out and cleaned her up, made that cut on her cheek as... what? A signature? Then he took her back to the place where he abducted her, took his time setting up the trailer and laying her out on the table. Once he was done he left her there, not really caring if her husband found her (unless he's dead too).

Hell, maybe he was the one who called in the tip this morning... He wasn't quite as brave as the Ice Truck Killer. Didn't want to risk leaving her somewhere public for everyone to find, so he waited until he was good and far away, found one of the six functioning pay phones left in Miami, and called us so we could see her while she still looked as he left her: cold, dead, and pristine.

But why didn't he cut her up? If he really wanted to emulate the Ice Truck Killer, why did he leave her whole? That's the only thing that's not fitting. Maybe he was too squeamish to dismember her, or maybe he just didn't know exactly how he was supposed to do it, since we've withheld all that.

But why Valerie Castillo? Of all the women for this guy to kill, how did he happen to choose a coyote? Did he just spot her coming off her boat or going for a jog outside her expensive home on Hibiscus Island? Or was she targeted by someone who knew who she was? Maybe a former business partner, someone who had watched her with Jorge Castillo for years, lusted after her.

(No signs of sexual assault though...)

I write it down anyway, glance at the fat stack of reports we have on Jorge.

The department has already been investigating this guy for years, has even tried applying for warrants for his house and boat. He was brought over from Cuba when he was six, married Valerie five years ago. Did she know who he was when she married him? Had she been in the business already? Did it ever bother her what they were doing? Or was the money just too good to care?

Christ, I can still smell that damn latrine, that auto garage. A fucking holding pen. So far we haven't found any bodies, but we have found a van, and the inside of that thing lit up like Christmas under the blue light. Batista wasn't able to locate Jorge's boat today, and I'm curious to know what we're going to find on it when it does turn up. Valerie's little speedboat was found docked outside the house, and it's still in processing, but so far clean. Jorge's boat was much larger, supposedly for fishing but more than likely it was one of the vehicles he used to transport the immigrants around.

We've already gotten a call from the FBI. If any bodies do turn up we might end up losing this case to them— unless I'm right, and Valerie wasn't killed by her husband. And god do I want to be right about this.

I'm going to have to line up my ducks, see if I can't weave a story the same way my brother does about the night that Valerie Castillo died. If I can get the detectives on board with this, this could really turn into something.

I start flipping through the forensics reports.

Doesn't matter how long it takes. I'm not going to bed until I've got something I can pitch to LaGuerta.


	36. Treading Water

_Treading Water  
><em>_Setting: "Return to Sender"_

* * *

><p>I set my phone back in its cradle, cross off Bert Doggert. According to his office, the guy's currently vacationing in Australia with his wife and two kids, left two weeks ago. American Airlines confirmed a record of the flight.<p>

Bust.

I look at the two other names I've already crossed off. A hundred pound veterinarian in Tampa, a park ranger in the Everglades. Both have alibis (big shock). The DEA sent us everyone with a license in Florida.

I glance up from my paper, wondering how everyone else is doing. Ramos was moved off this and put onto a shooting in Coral Gables. Doakes is meeting with the FBI liaisons, since it looks like the Bureau is getting more and more interested in this case after we turned over all those papers we found at the Castillos' house. Lopez, Randall, Batista, and I are working the list. LaGuerta's... I glance toward her office, but she's still not in there. I guess she's still in with the kid trying to get a sketch. I still have to pitch her my theory.

As I'm looking I notice Dexter drinking something out of his mug, leaning over the counter in the break area. His gaze is trained on LaGuerta's office.

I purse my lips, look back down, still feeling annoyed with him. I can't believe him of all people shat all over my theory, especially given the rest of the department was interested in hearing it. When I saw him this morning I'd been so excited to tell him, so ready to hear him say that I was onto something. But instead he told me I was grasping for something that isn't there and to keep it to myself. And when Doakes invited me to propose my theory for the team, he walked away before I'd even finished presenting it, not bothering to see how well it landed. Is he cheesed off that I didn't take his advice? I'd confront him about it, but I'd almost rather wait until something more turns up to prove me right, just so I can rub his nose in it for doubting me.

I glance up again to see him drain his mug and move behind the wall. Whatever. Back to the list. I pull up the DMV tab and punch in Sonya Ellis of West Palm Beach. She's an obvious no— female, lives over an hour away, no record —but we've gotta follow up on everyone, especially with the FBI sniffing around. For all we know, the person who killed her was apart of this whole extortion ring. Is it the 30-something animal control operator with the mousy hair and the crooked smile? Probably not, but everyone gets put under a microscope when the feds come in.

I'm a lot more interested in the guys in the 20 to 40 range, but the detectives took all of them on the off chance that one of them is suspicious. I've been practically holding my breath waiting for someone to say they've got a name to follow up on, but so far zilcho.

I pull up Ellis' records, look for a telephone number, find one. I'm getting set to dial when Doakes comes in.

"Hey," Batista says, stopping him. I glance over at the two of them. "How'd it go with the FBI?"

Doakes goes to his desk and sits. "It's still our case, for now, but the feds are handling the manhunt for Jorge Castillo. The guy's gone, probably back in fucking Cuba by now."

Or he's dead. Killed by our copycat.

I say nothing.

"How's it going with the DEA list?" he asks.

Batista shrugs, "About halfway through it. So far no hits."

That's disappointing.

Doakes exhales. "Alright, give me a few of yours. By the end of the day let's get to the end of this list. Still nothing on Jorge's boat?"

Batista shakes his head, "Nope."

He gets up and walks over, holding a sheet of paper. "It's probably with him in Cuba."

"Wouldn't surprise me."

Doakes crosses around Batista and leans over the detective's page. "Those four," he says, pointing. When he glances up he catches me looking. "You find anything, Morgan?" he asks.

"Nothing," I say.

He looks less than surprised. "Well, keep with it."

I nod. As Doakes heads back to his desk I notice Dexter emerge from his office, heading toward LaGuerta's. He glances through the glass, then turns and moves away, in the direction of the interview rooms, which is where she probably still is. I wonder what he wants with her, even though it's probably got nothing to do with me.

I look back at my computer, at Sonya Ellis' records. After a moment's pause, I dial the provided number. "DPS Wildlife Animal Removal," some guy answers.

"Hello, do you have a Sonya Ellis on staff?" I ask.

"We do," I hear him adjust the phone or something. "She's out on a call now though. Want to leave her a message?"

I say yes, identify myself and give my number, then hang up. I would be amazed if she doesn't check out.

I type in the next name. Second to last. As I scroll through records it suddenly hits me that I desperately need a toilet break, which isn't that surprising since I've had like four coffees and a Red Bull just to keep my energy levels up after having spent most of the night working on the profile.

I push out of my chair, head for the bathroom.  
>The lists are almost exhausted. We could go for the tri-state area, but our guy (<em>my<em> guy) may not be on any list. Who knows how extensively this M-99 stuff is trafficked, but if it was obtained illegally then we're basically down to square one to find him. All we've got is my profile, and maybe that sketch if it turns out to be anything. No trace, no nothing. Which is basically where we are with the Ice Truck Killer too, with the exception of the print on the lozenge wrapper. Come to think of it, these two guys match up on more points than just the MO of their victims. The Ice Truck Killer's also almost certainly a single, white male in his mid-30s, living alone and disconnected from his feelings. Totally meticulous, and probably familiar with forensics protocol, given he's left us nothing through ten different scenes. They may not be the same guy, but they both would be caught in the same net.

I turn the knob, open the door with my shoulder.

If this DEA list turns out to be a bust, I might look into the people put on the ITK suspect list. Might give us something new to work off, something in a different direction. Who knows, something could shake out.

I head for a stall, thoughts buzzing between the caffeine and the want for something to break. I think I'm starting to get a headache.


	37. Invitation

_Invitation  
><em>_Setting: "Return to Sender"_

* * *

><p>I sit at my desk, staring down at everything. I was so, so sure. I was <em>positive<em> that we were looking at a copycat, maybe even the start of a whole new slew of killings, but it was just the husband all along.

I keep looking between the boy's sketch and a blown up shot of Jorge Castillo, trying to see the resemblance. Dexter must be right: the kid must've been too dehydrated and confused to register what he'd been seeing that night. Maybe all he saw was shadows, and in order to understand what he saw he put a face and a figure to it. Jesus saved him from whatever it was that the Castillos had planned for him.

His story had been my best evidence in support of the copycat theory, besides just my interpretation of the scene: a stranger in the salvage yard had been the idea I'd built my argument on. And now there's a bloody knife and a bloody sock. In the course of a morning everything I've built has collapsed.

Maybe I was just grasping. My life's been the Ice Truck killings for weeks and weeks and weeks. Maybe I saw him there because I wanted to. I guess, really, what were the chances that my second ever homicide case would turn out to be a copycat?

Still, that scene... the way she was laid out: the table, the checkered table cloth, the cut on her cheek. It was so...

"Hey."

Something plunks down to my right, breaking through my stream of consciousness, and I look over to see Dexter sitting there beside me. I feel my face crunch into a scowl. "If you've come to gloat, do me a favor and fuck off," I say.

"Why would I do that?" he says. "Everyone makes mistakes."

I just look at him, not sure how to interpret that. "Then what do you want?" I ask.

"I was just wondering if you'd want to come to Astor's birthday party today."

There's something vaguely touching about the invitation that takes me aback, but at the same time that's not really where I want to be. "I don't know, Dex," I say. "It's kind of late notice. Besides, there's still a fuckton and a half to do on this case, assuming it's even still ours."

"Come on," he says, apparently completely oblivious to how annoyed with him I am. "It's one evening. They'll get along fine without you."

That wasn't the right thing to say. I feel another jab of annoyance.

"Besides, with how much overtime you've been putting in lately, I'm sure LaGuerta'll let you take off a few hours early."

"This coming from the guy who told me she'd ship me back to Vice if I presented my copycat theory?"

He pauses, finally seeming to hear my tone. "Listen, I'm sorry the case turned out this way, I really am, and I'm sorry I said what I did. It was a good theory. I'll admit when I first walked into that trailer, I didn't think it was the husband either."

I don't want to hear his 'but.' "It's fine," I say to preempt it. "I've let it go." Or I'm letting it go, anyway.

"So can I tell Rita yes?"

Dropping her name's a low blow. "I don't have a gift," I say, trying to find an excuse.

"Don't worry about it," he says. "You can put your name on mine if you want."

I exhale, not wanting to give in, but I can feel myself caving. Dammit.

"There'll be cake," he says just to twist the knife. "It's called Coconut Dream. Rita made it. And there'll be snacks, brownies, bowls of fruit, whatever the other moms brought."

Sometimes I really fucking hate him.

"Come on," he says, knowing he has me. "It'll be fun."

I feel myself crack. "Fine," I hold up my hands. "I'll go. You happy?"

He smiles, "Very."

I glower at him. "What time do I need to be there?"

"4:30."

"Okay, go away. I'll see you there if LaGuerta okays it."

"Alright, sister." He's still smiling as he gets up and goes back to his office. His second victory of the day, and my second loss.

The fucker...

I exhale, look back down at all the papers on my desk, at my profile and that list I got from the FBI, feeling utterly defeated. So much work, so much energy, wasted. Maybe Doakes was right about me being too green. I wonder what Dad would've said about all this.

"Buck up, Morgan," I hear from across the room, and I glance back up to see Doakes is looking at me from his desk. "It's okay your copycat didn't pan out. Trust me, you're not getting bounced back to Vice for having ideas."

I meet his gaze. So he was listening to our conversation.

I'm glad no one seems to be holding my zealousness against me, not even LaGuerta, but I really don't want to talk about it. "What's going on with the FBI?" I ask.

"Jorge's still our arrest to make," he says, "but that doesn't mean the feds won't offer him a deal for information on his ring once he does turn up."

I lean back, "Why do you think he killed her?"

"I'm still going with money."

"Tried and true," I mutter. Right up there with 'The husband did it.' "But why did he leave her body like that? And who called us to the scene?"

He shrugs. "Who knows? They were a couple of sick motherfuckers. Maybe it was his way of saying one final fuck you to her."

I sigh, still struggling to accept the fact that this turned out to be so simple. "Want to grab lunch and finish our reports?"

He almost grins at me, which looks weird on his face. "Not saving room for cake, Morgan?"

"Fuck off, I didn't eat this morning," I say, getting up. "I'm gonna go talk to LaGuerta, then I'm going to the food truck. You can join if you want."

"You still buying?" he asks.

I remember my offer from this morning, which really wasn't that long ago, when I'd been so sure I had found us a new lead to chase. "No," I say.

I hear him snort as I make my way past him toward LaGuerta's office. She's in there scribbling away, probably working on the press release on Jorge Castillo. The guy's been in the paper for two days courtesy of his involvement with human smuggling, but now we can officially tack murder to his name too.

"Uh, excuse me, lieutenant," I say, knocking on her open door.

"Morgan," she looks up. "What is it?"

I'm not sure if I'm hoping she'll say yes or no. "I know it's short notice, but I was wondering if I could leave around 3:30 today. Dexter's girlfriend, Rita, her daughter's having a birthday and they invited me."

"That's fine," she says immediately, which sort of surprises me. "Just try to have everything done before you go."

"That won't be a problem," I say. "Thanks."

"No problem. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to have this done in..." she glances at her watch, "fifteen minutes."

"Yeah," I say, then quickly leave. That was surprisingly painless. Maybe despite what she said yesterday she's growing to be okay with me, or at the least maybe just moving away from dislike.

As I step out I notice Dexter watching me through his blinds. When I meet his eyes he mouths 'So?' Begrudgingly, I give him a thumbs up, then return to my desk for my purse, feeling hungry and irritable. Doakes appears at my elbow as I throw it over my shoulder. "Alright," he says. "Let's have lunch, finish up our reports together."

"Sounds good to me," I say.

We walk to the elevator, step inside. As we descend I can't help but be a little glad, despite myself, for the evening I suddenly have off, if anything just because it'll give me some time to pull my head out of my ass over Valerie Castillo. I need a break, to spend a little time with some non-cops. God knows Doakes' family were basically the only real people I've interacted with since Sean.

Besides, like Dexter said, there'll be cake...


	38. Picnic Bench

_Picnic Bench  
><em>_Setting: "Return to Sender"_

* * *

><p>I can feel myself sweating as I slowly hunt around the lawn for random bits of paper and wayward plates and forks. At some point in the last hour the humidity climbed up to a thousand percent, and dark clouds have already pretty much covered up the sky. It's not raining yet, but at this point 'yet' is just an operative word.<p>

And it was such a nice morning. (Shit, is my umbrella still in the car?)

I catch sight of one of the plastic glasses with the nose and the eyebrows on a palm frond, pull it off. Just below it is a glop of icing and a plastic fork. I pick that up too.

"Hey, you don't have to do that," I hear from behind me, and I glance back to see Rita walking toward me holding a trash bag.

"It's fine," I say, tossing the fork and the other random crap I've collected into her bag. "Honestly, kind of needed a break."

She smiles, "I understand. It's hard enough having two kids hopped up on sugar, but nine?"

"Yeah, especially after five of them asked how many criminals I've killed and if they could hold my gun." Not to mention the mothers. All of them must be rabid fans of Nancy Grace.

She snorts, "Sorry about that."

"It's fine," I wave it off, set the glasses on the table and take a seat. "I don't know how you can keep up with them."

"Oh, sometimes I don't," she sits across from me. "And I wanted to thank you again for coming over. I know Dexter's said you've been working like a dog lately."

"Has he?" I say, glancing toward the house. Before I stepped out he was entertaining Cody with some game on the TV.

"Yeah, and I've seen all the news lately. Dexter told me you were the one who found that guard?"

I think immediately of that basement: Tucci and the rats and the bed. "Yeah," I say, leave it at that. Rita doesn't need that kind of imagery in her life.

"I don't know how you can do it, see what you see every day," she says. "You or Dexter."

I shrug, "I don't know. Our dad was a homicide cop, and he never really left it at the office. I'm not sure he realized exactly how much we both grew up with it, you know?" I cross my arms on the table, wanting to steer the conversation away from the case and my father. "So how're you doing?" I ask.

"Oh, you know..." she trails off, and her expression seems to fall. "Actually, Paul called a few days ago," she says after a beat. "He was just released from prison. Overcrowding, apparently."

I feel a ping in my chest. I sit up, "What? Are you serious?"

"Yeah," her gaze slips down. "He actually wanted to come today, to the party. I threatened him, reminded him of the restraining order, but who knows how long that'll stop him."

"Shit," I reach over and gently squeeze her hand. She looks up. "Listen," I say, "you ever feel threatened and need me to bring some heat down on his ass, just call me."

She smiles again, "Oh, I... thanks, but for now I just want to play this by ear. Cody, you know, he doesn't remember much of it, but Astor does. I don't want to put her through all that again— having to watch her father get dragged out of here in cuffs. Not unless it comes to it."

I nod, "I understand, but, hey, you've got my number. Just know I'm here if it does come to it."

"Thanks," she squeezes my hand back. "I admit, having both Dexter and you here made me feel better about this party, since I'm still not sure he won't decide to show up. By the way," she changes the subject in the same breath, "what's going on with you two? Dexter, I mean."

"Oh, it's nothing," I slide back my hand, making a sort of waving gesture. "We had a disagreement over a case. He was right; I was..." I trail off as the person in question opens the door and pops his head out. "Speak of the devil," I mutter.

"Deb," he says, waggling something in his hand. "Doakes called. Twice."

I can't help but feel some slight, automatic annoyance that he went pawing through my purse, but I shove it down. "Oh, yeah?" I say, sliding off the bench and walking to him. "What's he want?"

"I don't know," he says. "I didn't catch it in time."

"Hm," I take my phone from him. "Thanks."

"Sure," he says, then looks at me for an awkward moment before I step away for a corner of the lawn and hit redial. He walks over to Rita, and I hear them talking as I press the phone to my ear.

"Doakes," his brusque voice answers by the second ring.

"It's Morgan," I say. "What's up? You miss me already?"

"No," he says, sounding so serious I'd feel hurt if I wasn't being sarcastic anyway. "I know you took the evening but you might want to get down here."

"Get down where?" I hold my free palm up to check for rain. The air is so moist I can't tell if it's started sprinkling or not.

"Back to the station. Harbor Patrol finally found Jorge Castillo's boat. They're towing it back now."

I refocus on the phone. "Is there more evidence on it to incriminate him for killing his wife?"

"We don't know yet, but we definitely found enough to implicate him in at least three other homicides."

Now he's got my full attention. "Three?"

"There are bodies in his boat. At least three were floating up at the top of his cargo hold, but who knows how many more people are in there."

"Holy fuck," I mutter. "Yeah, alright, I'll be there soon."

"We'll be at the docks."

We click off, and I just sort of stare off for a second, trying to process what he told me. Three bodies, maybe more. Jorge's been under investigation for a long time in connection to the smuggling and disappearances of immigrants, but now suddenly we've got the corpses to prove it, not to mention enough forensics on his wife to convince a jury. When this guy finally gets popped he's going to get buried under a fuckton of evidence.

I turn and walk back over to the table. Dexter looks up as I approach. "What's going on?" he asks.

I look at him. He's got that brow thing going again. "Harbor Patrol found Jorge's boat. And you'll never guess what they found inside."

"What?" he says.

"Bodies." I look at Rita, "Sorry to take off, but I've gotta head back to the station."

"Oh, no, it's fine," she says. "I'm just glad you came." She walks around the table and gives me a brief hug. "It was nice to see you."

"It was nice to see you too," I say as she releases me, then I glance at my brother. "See you tomorrow, Dex." I turn and head for the door.

I hear footfalls following, then Dexter's voice, "Doakes didn't request me?"

I shrug, "Nope." Open the door. Astor and her friends are all sitting in a circle where the dining room table (and my purse) used to be. The table's now pressed against the wall, and I go to it, grab my purse.

"How long are you going to be mad at me?" Dexter asks me quietly when I turn around.

I look at him, slinging it over my shoulder. "I'm not mad, I..." I don't know. Is it even right that I'm annoyed with him for disagreeing with me?

"What?" he prompts.

I shrug, "It's fine. I'm overreacting. We were both just doing our jobs."

"So everything's fine?"

"Peachy fu..." I stop, glancing at the minors sitting four feet away. "Yep, everything's fine. I'll see you tomorrow, brother." I make for the door.

"Bye," he calls after me.

I reach the door, open it, step out, close it. Exhale. Forty seconds later I'm putting on my seat belt and keying the engine. I flip on my lights, pull away from the mini van and the baby blue SUV, coast off the quiet, suburban street.

It starts to rain as I head toward the station, the sky above becoming one central mass of ominous grey. Seems like an appropriate scene for whatever it is that's waiting for me back at Miami Metro. I'm not exactly sure what Doakes meant by 'floating in the cargo hold,' but I guess I'm going to find out.

I wonder what this means for our jurisdiction over Jorge Castillo. If the dead people in his boat are indeed Cuban immigrants, we're likely turning everything over to the feds. I can't honestly say I'd be too disappointed about that. As terrible as it is, I don't feel much of anything for Valerie Castillo. I wouldn't say she deserved to be butchered like a pig and left naked and supine in the middle of a salvage yard, but I'm not sure she deserves to take much more of our department's time either. Let the FBI deal with Jorge. We've already got one sick fuck to find.

I merge onto the freeway for downtown, turn up the wipers another notch. The rain's already coming down harder.


	39. Shifting Gears

_Shifting Gears  
><em>_Setting: "Return to Sender"_

* * *

><p>It's been raining for almost two days straight, and it's supposed to keep on going through tomorrow night.<p>

I exhale and take another sip of coffee, looking out the window. The government parking lot outside looks more like a big, black puddle than anything. I'm not looking forward to going back out there. I still haven't quite dried from the walk inside.

I turn and lean against the wall, not wanting to look anymore. The lobby in front of me reminds me vaguely of the doctor's office I used to go to when I was a kid, with wallpaper and furniture that probably hasn't been updated since the mid-80s. The halls and offices beyond have been modernized more recently— white walls and steel, post-90s chic —but from where I'm standing it would be virtually impossible to guess that this is an FBI field office. Maybe that's the point.

I get off the wall as a door opens and Doakes steps out, throwing on his jacket. After we left the meeting with the agents he went to go use the little boy's room before we start the trek back.

He nods at me as he walks over, and we turn for the elevator together. "So that's it?" I ask quietly when we reach it.

"What's it?" he asks.

"That's the end of it? We just hand them their entire case and walk away?"

He glances at me, "Yeah."

"That doesn't bother you?"

He shrugs. "Pick your battles, Morgan. Frankly, they've got jurisdiction over this, and if Jorge really has disappeared back into Cuba, as far as both me and the department are concerned they can keep this fucking case. That's at least six names we can erase off our boards and our stats."

"But we did all the leg work," I gripe as the elevator doors open. We step inside together.

"Sometimes that's just how shit shakes out," he says.

I purse my lips, then unbutton my umbrella, push it loose. When the doors open we walk into a large, airy, and completely bland lobby: white tile scuffed and dirtied by wet shoe prints, big double-paned glass windows and white walls. Outside I can see palm fronds being whipped around by wind and rain.

That's just great.

Doakes goes straight for the doors, apparently not giving anymore of a shit about the weather as he does about the FBI taking our case, no hood, no umbrella. Probably another army thing. I stop in the doorway and push open my umbrella before chasing after him. After climbing into passenger side of his car I toss the umbrella on the floor, then flip on the heat.

Doakes says nothing as he makes his way back downtown. I'm already getting used to his heavy silences. Frankly, all things considered, he and I aren't too bad a match as partners go. Neither of us have any patience for bullshit, and he doesn't seem to care how I talk to him.

Still, I wonder how he does feel about these last few days. It was one thing when this was just a wife-killing, but then there were five bodies in the storage of that boat. Two women over 50, both of whom the coroner said had had children; a young, kind of sweet-looking kid in his mid-20s; a moustachioed man in the 65 plus age range; and a 32 year old guy we actually were able to ID since he had written contact information for his sister on the inside of a shirt cuff. We spent a good part of yesterday tracking her down, then getting her to trust us enough to open the door. From her behavior I can only assume she's either illegal or on an expired visa, but since Doakes didn't seem to care, I didn't care either. Honestly, with five bodies, it was a relief to be able to make at least one identification, even if it was indescribably horrible to sit on that cheap, threadbare couch in that tiny, airless apartment, watching this woman dissolve into tears on her husband's shoulder. She was his older sister.

I just hope the FBI leaves her and her family alone. The last thing she needs after all this is to be shipped back to Cuba.

I glance at Doakes. He ground his teeth the whole ride back from that visit, but by the end of the day he seemed back to his usual grouchy self. I wonder how many years and how many moments like that it took for everything to start blurring into the background, for it to be easy to turn over a case like this to another agency that barely lifted a finger to help us with the ground work. I've always imagined myself eventually being like him, but right now that image seems totally out of whack with who I am. It took everything I had yesterday to keep my voice steady as we finished up the identification.

I refocus on the rain being rhythmically slammed to the bottom of the windshield. Doakes is right though: it's a blessing to have this case off the department's shoulders, since we're still neck deep in all this Ice Truck Killer shit and we don't need to add something as complicated and politically charged as a coyote and his murdered wife, as well as the five dead Cuban immigrants in his boat, to the mix. As it is, there's been nothing new from the Ice Truck Killer in almost two weeks, since I found Tucci in that basement. The press seems to be getting bored already with calling the department a group of incompetent fucks— today was the third day in a row I didn't see anything in the paper or on the news about the murders. In contrast, I've been finding myself holding my breath as each days passes. I don't know why he suddenly seems to have stopped, and I don't know how long that's going to last or how he's planning to resurface, but I don't want to find out. I want to find him first.

I adjust my seat belt, recross my legs, suddenly craving a cigarette.

I just don't know how I'm going to do that. Not yet, anyway.


	40. Benched

_Benched  
><em>_Setting: "Circle of Friends"_

* * *

><p>I click lazily through the links and scroll, head on my hand. I don't know what's more disturbing: all this shit I'm reading or the fact that it's all so readily available to find. Fucking murderpedias and newspaper articles and quotes and videos and social media. So many people have a fucking hard-on for serial killers and it gives me the creeps. Hunting the Ice Truck Killer has brought me close to this kind of evil, and I know that now that I'm in Homicide I'm only going to keep getting closer. These fucknuts deserve to be buried by history, not celebrated. There's something demented about all this.<p>

What was it my old psych prof used to say? Everyone's got a fetish, and the world is steeped in its pornographers...

_At the scene of the Moskowitz and Violante shooting, a local resident named Cecilia Davis had been walking her dog when she saw a parked car being ticketed near a fire hydrant... Davis stayed silent about this experience for four days until she finally contacted police, who closely checked every car that had been ticketed in the area that night. Berkowitz's 1970 four-door yellow Ford Galaxie was among the cars they investigated..._

So, what, if the fucker had moved another street up when he was looking for parking, he might not have been caught?

I glance up at some slight movement in my periphery just as LaGuerta opens the door. "James," she says as she walks out, slinging her purse over her shoulder. "There's been a stabbing down in Wynwood; here's the address." She holds out a slip of paper. "Uniforms on scene identified the victim as Derrick Mitchell. Take Dexter. There's a lot of blood."

Doakes rises and takes the paper. I get up too, stretching and shrugging into my blazer. I mean, it's kind of late, but I'm not exactly having to cancel anything so...

"Pullman," LaGuerta turns and looks at the detective. "You're with Doakes." When he nods, she looks back at Doakes. "Tread lightly. The Mitchells have a sister-in-law in the DA's office— Kathy Barnett."

I sort of stand here stupidly, not sure what just happened. Doakes glances at me and I dip my eyebrows, make a what-the-fuck gesture.

Before I can decide if I want to say anything, LaGuerta looks at me. "Morgan," she says. "Go home. It's late."

I open my mouth, but Doakes shoots me a look that makes me close it. With effort.

"See you all tomorrow," she says, walking away.

I feel rooted to the spot as I watch her head to the elevator. Behind me I can hear Pullman start to shuffle around things on his desk, and then Doakes appears at my side.

"What the fuck was that?" I ask as the elevator doors close and LaGuerta disappears behind them. "I thought I was your partner."

"Don't take it personally, Morgan," he says. "If there's one thing you've gotta get used to around here, it's politics. Kathy Barnett's got a lot of pull with the DA."

I separate my molars, take a cleansing breath. "Fine, I get it," I say, dropping back into my seat. Doesn't mean I have to like it though. Fuck I hate being benched, especially since I (_we_) lost the Castillo case.

"She's right though," he continues, ignoring my petulance. "It's late. Clock off and head home. At least one of us'll be asleep by 1. Always takes fucking forever to close a stabbing scene." He says all this while looking in the direction of Dexter and Masuka's little area. He then nods and makes a two-fingered 'come here' gesture, which is quickly followed by the sound of a door opening.

"What's up, Sergeant?" Dexter says as he approaches. I swivel slightly in my seat and cross my legs.

"Stabbing," Doakes says. "Get your shit together. I wanna be out of here in three minutes."

"Lucky for you, all my shit's already together," my brother says breezily. "Got an address?"

"Northwest 37th and first." He pauses, "We'll meet you there. See you tomorrow, Morgan," he says, then stalks off. Pullman quickly joins him, and then suddenly it's just me and Dexter in the bullpin, watching them disappear behind the stairwell door.

"You're not coming?" my brother asks.

"I wasn't invited," I say, not really trying to sound not annoyed.

He shrugs, "Hey, there are worse things than not having to pull a late shift."

He's not helping. "Yeah, yeah," I say. "Go. Have fun at your stabbing."

"I will," he flashes me a little smile, then goes back to his office. Forty seconds later he's walking out again with his shoulder bag and his camera case. "Night, sister," he says, tossing me a wave as he walks by my desk.

"Bye," I wave too. As he heads away I slump back onto my hand, look at my screen.

David Berkowitz.

I ex out the tab, click on the one I had open earlier for Timothy McVeigh. Skim.

_Trooper Charlie Hanger...was about 75 miles from the disaster area when he noticed a beat-up 1977 Mercury Grand Marquis. What caught his attention was the yellow car's lack of a license plate..._

_He pulled the driver over and got out of his patrol car... McVeigh explained he'd just bought the car. When Hanger asked if he had insurance, registration, or a bill of sale McVeigh explained everything was being mailed to his address... Hanger noticed a bulge under McVeigh's jacket...confiscated the 9-mm Glock that McVeigh was packing, as well as an ammo clip and a knife... After confirming McVeigh had no record, he explained that McVeigh's New York concealed-weapon permit was not legal in Oklahoma...taking McVeigh to the Noble County Jail in Perry, Oklahoma... At the jail, McVeigh was booked on four misdemeanor charges... At Washington's National Crime Information Center, computers generated a report: Trooper Hanger had also run a report on McVeigh. Noble County Sheriff Jerry Cook confirmed they were holding McVeigh on unrelated charges..._

So much happenstance. Joel Rifkin was also driving around without plates. Wayne Williams was caught returning to a bridge near an old crime scene. Ted Bundy was arrested for not pulling over for a traffic stop. Randy Kraft was pulled over for driving erratically and patrol ended up finding a corpse in his passenger seat. Dennis Nilsen was caught because he was fucking flushing body parts down the toilet and it backed up the sewage.

Somehow I can't see the Ice Truck Killer making the same kind of mistake, but at this point I'm willing to try anything.

I close out the internet and open up DMV, then get off my hand to thumb through all the Ice Truck Killer folders I'm leaning on. Pull out the very first case, Tami Burgess. When I open up the folder and see the crime scene photos I can still remember the ninety seconds that I spent beyond the tape there, that moment when I looked down and saw all those body parts wrapped up in brown paper. That was over six months ago now.

I find the address and type it in, then do the same for all the other crime scenes, including all the places we found Tucci's body parts. Then I start cross-checking names between the ten of them, sinking slowly back onto my hand.

God this is pathetic. We may have a partial print, but as long as this guy stays out of booking we won't have anything to match it to.

My eyes blur slightly as I go back and forth. Between the thunderstorm and my neighbor's decision to throw a party until 4 in the morning on a weekday, I didn't really get to sleep last night.

I blink, refocus, keep on checking the names on one list against the names on the others. If just one name shows up twice it could mean something.

But... nothing.

I sigh as I check the last name, feeling tired and discouraged, then I just start clicking through each name one by one, hoping to find a criminal record, something interesting.

Time passes. The air conditioning unit kicks on. Distantly, sirens fade into the background. Somewhere in Wynwood my (supposed) partner and my brother are at a crime scene, standing over a body. And I'm sitting here.

And then I run out of names.

I close my eyes.

I should go home, but I don't want to. I have to find something, anything, on the Ice Truck Killer, something that somehow everyone else missed. So far this is my only idea beyond chasing the shit that's still occasionally streaming into the tip lines. Maybe if I'm not getting him off parking violations I can widen the net or search a different grid. What about around the Botanica? (though, really, how often does patrol put out traffic citations in that area...)

I feel myself slump, snap back up.

Shit.

I push to my feet, feeling tired. My first impulse is to grab some coffee or a Red Bull, keep on powering through it, but my gaze falls on LaGuerta's office, and for some reason I think longingly of her couch. I've seen it a hundred times, but I've never actually sat on the damn thing.

I wonder how comfortable it is... probably better than this fucking chair.

I walk over and open the door, stand here for a second. The couch suddenly seems like the most inviting thing on the face of the whole godforsaken planet, and I find myself taking off my blazer and walking to it, dropping onto the cushions.

Sleepiness hits me like a wave, and I press my hand into the leather, feeling my eyelids itch. I mean, fuck it, nobody's here but the cleaning crew, and nobody's gonna give a shit. I can take a nap and get right back to searching for citations around the crime scenes after.

I let myself lay down, throw my blazer over my side like a blanket, close my eyes.

Just for... well, however long until I wake up.


	41. Hail Mary

_Hail Mary  
><em>_Setting: "Circle of Friends"_

* * *

><p>My heart's still racing, adrenaline still surging through every muscle. I pace behind Batista, trying to keep the steady stream of fucks inside my head from coming out of my mouth.<p>

"Yep, it's dead," he says eventually, rising from the tire with a grunt.

"Fuck," one slips out. I keep pacing as he goes for the radio and tells dispatch to send a new tire out with patrol.

"Jesus christ, Angel," I say when he gets off the horn, stopping beside him. "Did we just find him? Is Neil Perry the fucking Ice Truck Killer?"

Batista turns and leans against the car. "I don't know."

"Don't fuck with me here," I say, crossing my arms. "We came here to ask him a couple questions and he slashed our tire and ran. He's definitely hiding something."

"Let's just... take it slow here," he says, making a placating gesture. "I admit, this is suspicious as hell but we've gotta keep a level head here. We can't afford another Tony Tucci."

"I never believed Tucci was a suspect from the start," I say. "And neither did you. But this..." I take a long breath, to slow my heart and my thoughts, "this fucking stinks."

He looks like he's about to agree with me, but then his phone rings. "This is Batista," he says, answering. After a pause, "Lieutenant, we may have a lead on the Ice Truck Killer."

I fidget as LaGuerta's tinny, distant voice responds. Fuck, I can't believe this. Some random fucking hail mary brought us here.

"Yeah, Morgan was running moving violations near the crime scenes, ended up recognizing someone on the list. Neil Perry."

I walked that motherfucker out of the precinct, talked to him. All I really remember about him was that he seemed like a total math club geek, the kind of guy who couldn't have gotten laid in high school or college by the most desperate girl in school. But now that I'm standing here I can also remember him asking me about the hospital, if I'd seen 'that security guard,' if it had been 'traumatic.' By the time I'd escorted him out of the precinct I had found myself agreeing with Doakes about the fact that he was full of shit.

And maybe he was, but for different reasons. He never saw some shadowy guy with a cap around the hospital that night, and living all the way out here he sure as shit wouldn't have been taking a walk around it in the middle of the night. And...

I turn around, walk up to and around the thing I can only loosely describe as a 'house.'

No sign of a dog— no water bowls, no fencing, no barking, no paw prints in the dirt. Perry lied about being there that night, but why the fuck would he do that? Why would he have come in as a voluntary witness?

I think of all the Wikipedia pages and true crime sites I had been on last night, all those serial killers who sent letters and notes to the police. Was Perry just mocking us? Me?

I stop in my tracks behind the rusty tin box, one boot pushing up against what feels like a concrete slab covered by a cut of faux grass.

I haven't stopped wondering if it had been the Ice Truck Killer who'd called me to the hospital that night. Was it Perry? Had he known who I was when I walked into that interview room? Did he ask if I had seen Tucci because he was the one who baited me into going out there in the first place?

Jesus, how did I not sense anything _that_ off about the guy? Or Doakes? How did he walk through a precinct full of cops without setting off a single bell?

I look at the newspaper-covered windows, the half a deer skull hanging near the back door. Fucking bottles of barbeque sauce and beer and wood pallets and shitty lawn decorations and car parts and trash, the patio furniture on the random square of plastic grass. Even if we weren't here hunting a serial killer I'd've taken one look at this place and thought for sure that whoever lived here clearly had a screw loose or ten.

"Morgan," I hear, and I turn around as Batista walks up to me. "Patrol will be here in a few minutes to secure the property. LaGuerta wants us back at the station as soon as we get the tire replaced. She's calling everyone in."

"What?" I say. "We're not staying?"

"It'll take us a few hours to get the search warrant," he says. "And if this lead is as good as it feels, LaGuerta's gotta plan our next moves carefully, probably set up a task force to find him, especially if he's fleeing for the border."

"I can't fucking believe he got away from us" (_from me_). I look in the direction Perry disappeared with a sudden bolt of frustration.

"Don't start beating yourself up yet," Batista says. "It's been six minutes since we found him, and LaGuerta's already started freezing his assets and sending out BOLOs to every cop, bank, bus, plane, and train station in Florida. He'll probably make the 12 o'clock news. Believe me, this cocksucker's not gonna get far."

Pessimistically, I think of Jorge Castillo, who disappeared off the face of the planet. I have no idea if the FBI is any closer to finding him than we were.

But I'm not going to mention it. Instead I purse my lips and glance around. "Would you look at this fucking shithole?"

The sun reflects off his glasses as he follows my line of sight to the row of junker cars parked alongside overgrown hedges. Just beyond the bushes I can see run-down pink bungalows and chain-link fencing. To the right and behind the trailer is just a whole lot of dirt and what looks like vacant mobile homes.

We might as well be standing in the middle of a desert. Perry could've been doing anything out here and no one would've known. No one around to hear you scream...

I turn again, find myself walking toward the station wagon.

Is this the vehicle he picked them up in? Was Cherry dragged out of this car and killed somewhere near where I'm standing? (because I can't imagine her coming out this far willingly) The other girls? Was all this scrub and rusted cars the last thing they saw?

The sound of sirens attract my attention, and I move away from the car to see an enormous dust cloud heading in our direction. Within moments four patrol units are pulling in, and they park haphazardly around us as Batista and I make our way in front of the trailer. They all kill their sirens at once, and the silence seems to ring as Batista crunches his way toward the nearest car.

I hang back, listen to him give his orders while I continue to scan the scene, my thoughts bouncing with my pulse. This is all happening so fast: one little break and suddenly the whole floor seems to be collapsing beneath this case.

And I found it.

_I found the fucking Ice Truck Killer._

I refocus as a uniform pulls a tire from his trunk and sets it on the dirt with a puff of dust, starts rolling it toward my car. I follow him and Batista, though god knows I know fuck all about cars or changing tires. "Need any help?" I ask anyway.

Batista glances back at me, and I don't know if I'm insulted or not to see the skepticism on his face. "Don't worry about it," he says.

"Alright," I say.

I watch him and the officer start working on the tire for a moment, but my attention drifts quickly, and before I've even finished processing the thought I'm already heading back to the station wagon. When I get there, I glance through the windows, looking for... I don't know what. The thing is filled with trash and shirts and what looks like CDs, but from what I can tell, no body parts.

I turn, look at the newspaper-covered windows, at all the junk all over the grounds. It's hard to imagine that those perfect, meticulous crime scenes were produced by someone who seems even more slovenly than me, but it's starting to seem like that might be the case.

Jesus, I can't wait for that warrant to come through. I want to know what's behind those windows.

Almost as much as I don't.


	42. Tomorrow

_Tomorrow  
><em>_Setting: "Circle of Friends"_

* * *

><p>I collapse onto my bed, and for more than several seconds I just lay here completely splayed out on my comforter, my boots hanging off the edge, my gun digging into my lower back.<p>

What a fucking day.

When I feel like I can move again, I arch up, remove my holster and set it next to me on the bed, then pull my knee to my stomach, roll up my pant leg and unzip my boot, toss it on the floor. The other boot and my socks join it a few seconds later, and then I settle back down, stare up at the ceiling.

Neil Perry is the fucking Ice Truck Killer. I still can barely process it. The trailer with all that stuffed roadkill, the crime scene pictures, the newspaper clippings, the ton and a half of bondage and rape porn, all those bookmarks that were practically a how-to on dismemberment and murder (_Civil War operation techniques, The History of Torture, Butchering the Human Carcass, The medical art of bloodletting, Blood and the human heart..._). That whole fucking trailer smelled like formaldehyde and bleach, dead animals everywhere. The bed with the stuffed lamb (what, did he fucking sleep with it?).

And all those crime scene pictures... They looked eerily similar to the ones we have on record, almost identical, and there were so many of them. Pictures from every angle of all the girls he killed, so he could relive his displays in full color. But there was nothing in the set of Tony Tucci, and no pictures of his victims outside of where he dumped them. We still don't know where he killed those girls. None of us really believe he did the bloodletting in his trailer— too small, too cluttered, and so far all the blood found has been identified as animal —so for all we know he's hiding out wherever he took his victims.

It's not to say he couldn't have done it there. Except for the animal blood the place was weirdly clean— no prints anywhere, at all, not even on door knobs or the sink or the shit in the trash. It's possible that Perry wasn't actually living there at all, that it was just his workshop. We really don't know, since the stream from his camera doesn't seem to be feeding into anything in the trailer. Maybe he was remotely monitoring it from his actual home, or, if he was living there, maybe it was to keep an eye on it while he was at work, who knows.

I drum my fingers against my belly, reflecting on all the shit we dug up while we were waiting for the warrant.

Perry's got no friends (at least, none that we could find). Coworkers described him as "weird," "antisocial," "pompous," and "self-aggrandizing," always keeping to himself unless he felt he could one-up everyone in a conversation. An attention whore who always has something to prove.

No family either. An only child. His father skipped out when he was six; his mother's got a record of alcohol and substance abuse and is on file with CPS as having been physically and verbally abusive to her son. We don't know where the fuck she is now— her social security checks have been cashed for the past two years from the trailer's address, but we can't find any other evidence that she's even existed since 2004 (no phone, no bank activity, no cards, no accounting records, no nothing). Batista and I and everyone else on the task force are currently speculating that she's dead, that she's probably been dead for a little over two years now, and we only got more suspicious after we moved all the patio furniture and the grill and the faux grass off that weird concrete slab behind the trailer.

Masuka and his team were getting to work on it when the rest of us called it a night. I haven't stopped thinking that we're probably going to find Roberta Perry down there in the dirt. How fucked up would that be if it were true? He was grilling up hotdogs and ribs just a few feet above his mother (and who knows if anyone else is down there too).

So far everything's falling into place. Perry practically made the case for us with everything we found in his closet. For as meticulous as his dump scenes were, it's amazing to me the sheer volume of evidence he left behind for us to find. Even if we don't find a body on the property, we've got more than enough to bury him forever.

So what the fuck's Dexter problem?

I exhale, feeling a sudden jab of annoyance, glare at the ceiling.

He doesn't believe Perry's our guy. When I ran into him tonight in the parking lot as I was leaving the precinct and I told him about the mountain of shit we found at the trailer, he gave me this look like I was six years old and arguing that unicorns really do exist. This is the second time in a week he's doubted me, and it's hard not to take it personally. But this is different from Valerie Castillo. It's not just me with a theory this time— the whole department's hunting Perry —but Perry was _my_ lead, _my _find. I would've thought my own brother would've been the first to rally behind me on this, not the only one voicing doubts. Even _LaGuerta_ thanked me for my work on this.

Fucking _LaGuerta._

I don't know what his problem is. Is he annoyed that I'm somehow encroaching on his turf? That for once he doesn't get to be the one with all the answers? He's always been the star of the family— top of every class, charming, squeaky clean. Next to him I was the resident retard (and sometimes I worry I still am), always in trouble for skipping class, always in the background, constantly out-shined both personally and professionally.

Does it bother him that I'm finally in the spotlight too?

Or am I taking this too personally? Dexter's never been the resentful type (that would be me...). Maybe he just thinks he sees something that the rest of us have missed.

He's wrong though. Perry's guilty as shit. We've only been digging into his life for half a day and we already have enough to bury him. Hell, we even found a fucking packet of lozenges tucked into the passenger compartment of the station wagon. And who knows what (or who, or how many) we're going to find under the patio.

I can't wait for tomorrow. The net is tightening around Perry: everyone in the state's probably seen his face by now, and as far as we can tell he has no one in his life who would shelter him. God willing, by this time tomorrow we'll have him in custody, and we'll finally be able to put all this shit to rest.

I stretch my arms out on the bed, listening to the comforter slide under my skin.

Once we've found him, I wonder if I asked if he'd tell me whether or not he was the one who called me to the hospital. I just want to know why he chose me out of everyone on this case.

I sit up and rub my face, shift my hair behind my ears and around one shoulder.

Tomorrow's gonna be a big fucking day.


	43. Saws and Black Tubing

_Saws and Black Tubing  
><em>_Setting: "Circle of Friends"_

* * *

><p>For a second I stand in the center of the chaos, watching everything unfold. There are cops everywhere, swarming the motel parking lot like crows. My call for back-up seems to have summoned half the uniforms in Miami. The tension is as suffocating as it is invigorating, and I find myself staring at the back of the patrol unit where Neil Perry is sitting, just like everyone else is.<p>

Because it's finally over. The Ice Truck Killer is in custody, and, better yet, we just saved that girl's life.

(_I just saved her life..._)

I look away from our big fucking catch, at the ambulance parked just behind a knot of Crown Vics. The girl is sitting on the back of the truck with an EMT. She's wearing a police jacket that one of the uniforms gave her to make up for her torn shirt, and all the blood on her face has been cleaned off, her cut bandaged. She's staring at the green and white that's housing Perry not entirely unlike a gazelle who's been hypnotized by the sight of a lion.

And suddenly I hear Batista's voice in my ear. "We need to take her statement," he says, and I glance back, realizing he probably saw me looking.

"Now?" I say, glancing at her again. "Shouldn't she be going to the hospital?"

"EMT said she's only got a minor concussion. Besides, with these kinds of things, the sooner, the better."

I nod vaguely, turn back to study the girl. She said her name was Krystal when we finally untied her from the bed, but that's essentially all we know about her. Even though we can guess what happened here, I suddenly want to hear her tell us the story, if anything just to confirm what Batista and I happened to walk into.

"Come on then," he says, and then I'm following him forward. Krystal notices us only just as we cut off her line of sight to Perry, and when she finally looks at us it's like we're a couple of fucking martians.

"Can I go home now?" she says, sniffing. "I just want to go home. Please." She focuses on me, apparently sensing I'm the weakest between the two of us. "Please, just let me go."

"I'm sorry," I say, and it's sort of true. I try not to look at the big white bandage on her forehead. "You can go, but first we need to take your statement, if you're okay to do that? Or we could go to the station and take it there, if you prefer."

"No, I ..." She slumps against the ambulance door, looking small inside the police jacket. "What do you want?"

"Let's start with your name," Batista says, producing a pad of paper from his pocket.

"Krystal," she says, sniffing again and wiping her eyes.

"Your real name," he clarifies.

She looks at him almost angrily, but the expression fades quickly. "Krystal's my middle name," she says after a beat. "Alexis Krystal Bryant."

"That's good," he goes to sit beside her, positions himself so that he's below her. It occurs to me as she looks down at him that he's trying to give her some semblance of control. "Now, I just want you to know that we're not looking to get you in trouble here," he says. "The guy who assaulted you, he's the one we're after."

She glances from him to me, past me, then back to him.

"We just want you to tell us what happened," Batista continues when she says nothing. "That's all."

"What happened?" she repeats.

Instinctively I shift a little closer, positioning myself directly between her and the unit holding Perry. "Take your time," I say.

She looks up at me, but her gaze doesn't quite hit my eyes, instead falls to a point somewhere on the pavement. "He... well, you know," she says to the ground. "He propositioned me, brought me here. I mean, he seemed normal enough, you know?" she glances at me and away again. "Or at least like the kind of guy who's done this kind of shit before, you know?"

I do know, have had more or less the same thought, but I don't vocalize that.

"So he took me here, got a key from the desk, brought me to the room." She stops.

"Keep going," I prompt gently.

"I don't know, he told me to go in first. 'Lady's first' or something. And..." she sobs slightly, sniffs hard. "I don't know, I went in, I didn't think anything of it, you know? I mean, he was just another mark, you know? And then he hit me with something." Another sniff, and she rakes her hand across her face, schmearing her mascara even more than it already it is. "I woke up tied to the bed, and he was just... he was fucking standing over me, looking down at me." She hugs her arms to her chest. "And then he started fucking rambling about how he was going to kill me, and I saw all those fucking saws and knives and I fucking freaked, you know?" She takes a breath, shudders and chokes on it. "He was gonna fucking kill me," she says. "Oh my god, he was going to..." her voice cracks, and so does something in my stomach. "Like those other girls..."

I glance at Batista, shake my head slightly.

"He was going to..." she sobs. "Oh god..."

"It's okay," Batista says. "We can stop."

"Please," she whispers into her knees. "Please, I just want to go home. I have to... I have to call my sister. Please... I..."

Batista nods, gets off the back of the ambulance and looks around the parking lot. His gaze stops on a youngish female officer, and he gestures her over when she sees him looking.

"Sir," she says as she approaches us.

"Officer," he says, "would you please take Krystal home, make sure she gets in safe?"

"Of course," she says.

He nods, looks back at Krystal, who's rocking slowly as she cries into her knees. "Krystal," he says, seems to stop himself. "Alexis," he corrects, and she glances up at him. "This is Officer Perez. She's going to take you home now, alright?" When she nods, he digs around his pocket. "This is my card," he says, pulling one out and holding it out to her. "Hold onto it, in case you need to talk or you think of anything else you want to tell us."

She takes it and just sort of stares at it, sniffing. Nods again.

I want to say something to her, but I have no idea what to say. I've seen firsthand what Perry did to those other girls, what he did to Tucci, and as I stand here I can't help but wonder what would have happened if we'd chosen to go to one of the other five motels on our list before this one. The thought sends something long and cold down my stomach, something that catches my breath.

"Let's go," Batista says to me quietly, and we walk away from her, leave her to Perez. I take one last look back at her before we cross between a row of cruisers, see her hug the other officer. (_Should I have done that? Would that even have been appropriate?_)

We're halfway back to the room when Batista's phone rings. He stops, takes it out, looks at the caller ID. "It's LaGuerta," he says, then answers, "Batista."

I watch him listen to his phone for a second, then turn away, finding myself drawn almost magnetically back to the room. The door's still open, just as we left it, and completely empty.

I walk inside, stop at the foot of the bed, glance around.

On the left a rack of tools: saws, blades, clamps, tubing— some of the same shit we found in his trailer (so he used his taxidermy tools on his victims). On the right a briefcase filled with knives and pliers and a cleaver. The plastic covered mattress, the schmear of Krystal's blood. All this in the middle of a motel room that looks like a time capsule from 1993 with its pink sea shell lamps and the totally 90s abstract art and the ancient tube TV and the ugly, cheap carpeting.

It doesn't seem like a likely place to murder, exsanguinate, freeze, and saw someone into pieces, doesn't seem at all like whatever it was that Dexter was talking about this morning... the Ice Truck Killer's 'psychological signature.' Was this the final act of an animal who could hear the hounds closing in? Did he want to be found here with that girl's butchered corpse? Maybe now that he knew it was over he just wanted to be found spectacularly— in a room covered in blood and filled with his kill tools.

Jesus christ, what if we hadn't made it here in time?

I think of Cherry. Did she die tied spread eagle on some mattress too? Did he set up all this shit for her to see before he bled her out and chopped her up? Were that fucker's psychotic ramblings the last thing she heard before he slit her throat?

I swallow, feel my mouth dry.

Jesus.

"Morgan," I hear, and I jump slightly, turn back as Batista walks in.

"Yeah?" I say, forcing my face into neutral.

"We're transporting Perry out of here," he says. "The media's already found out about the arrest. We've gotta get him away before more news vans show up."

"Probably that bitch at reception," I mutter, more to myself than anything.

He studies me for half a second, "You alright?"

I smile, more defensively than anything, "I'm great. I mean, fuck, can you believe all this?"

"You did great work on this," he says. "Seriously, it was your digging that got us here."

The smile feels less tight, and I nod.

"Come on," he says, tipping his head toward the door.

I follow him out of the room. When I look at where Krystal and the ambulance were, I can see they're both gone, and on the other end of the lot, along the road, there are news vehicles gathering. My car's still unfortunately out at the entrance, right where they all are, and as Batista and I walk to it a bunch of reporters notice us.

"_Is it true you've made an arrest on the Ice Truck Killer?" "Is there a victim in there?" "Have you arrested Neil Perry?" "Detectives..."_

We ignore them, quickly get into my car. I grab my keys and turn over the engine, look up at the unit that's holding Perry (_the Ice Truck Killer_), then shift out of park, get the hell out of the lot and away from the motel.

"What the fuck was he singing?" I ask for some reason as we roll by the news vans and the small swarm of reporters, flipping on my lights. "When we arrested him?"

"Now the Day is Over," he answers as he snaps on his seat belt, which sort of surprises me.

"How the fuck do you know that?" I ask.

"It's an old hymn," he says. "I was raised Catholic but Nina's Episcopalian. Sometimes they sing it at her church."

"Hm," I exhale, feeling tense and jittery as I hop back onto 90. At this hour the road's clear— four lanes of open pavement. When I glance in the rearview I see a line of blue and white lights following. I'm leading the fucking entourage.

_Me._

_They're following me._

My heart is beating hard, my tongue paper dry. I can't believe how quickly all of this came together. I... "I can't believe it's over," the thought comes out my mouth.

Batista glances at me and smiles, lightly taps my shoulder with his fist. "Now we just gotta break this motherfucker."

I grin too, press the gas a little. There's a half an hour of road between us and the station, but it feels like a shit ton more.


	44. Rudy Cooper

_Rudy Cooper  
><em>_Setting: "Circle of Friends"_

* * *

><p><em>AN: Currently suffering from writer's block, thus the delay ; updates may be sporadic until I can get over the hump that is 1x08._

I snap the door closed behind me, fall against it, exhale a "Fuck," long and slow. My entire body still feels vaguely like jello.

_Fuck_ what a day.

I dump all my shit on the floor, make my way to my bed and collapse there, let out another long groan and just grin retardedly at the ceiling.

I don't even know what just happened. One second I was sitting on the back of his car drinking champagne and sharing life stories and the next we were groping in the parking garage under the hospital, and our hands were everywhere, up and under shirts, fingers grasping at buttons, and then his voice was in my ear talking about his office as I was halfway through his shirt.

We barely made it there. I don't know what the fuck it was in me, maybe just the high off today's win, maybe the champagne we nicked from Tucci's party, maybe just how fucking incredibly good he seemed to taste, how good his hands felt raking across my skin. I was practically on fire by the time we got to the right door, and he pushed it open with my back.

All those fucking plastic hands and legs and tubs and tools... We fucked in the dark, just street light coming in from the window. For as hungry as I was, he seemed almost starving for every inch of me...

I can feel my heart pounding again just thinking about it...

I exhale hard, cross my legs, uncross, sit up and unzip my boots. I'm halfway out of my pants (again) when I hear my phone chiming from the other room, and I quickly toss them on the bed before jogging out.

"This is Morgan," I say after I find the stupid thing in a side pouch.

"It's Batista," I hear. "Figured you'd want the heads up. Perry just confessed."

"Oh motherfucker," I whisper, grinning even more than I already was. "He never ended up requesting a lawyer?"

"Nope," he says, and I can hear him grinning too. "He wanted everyone to hear his bullshit uncensored."

"Fuckin A, Angel," I say.

"And we have you to thank for this bust," he continues. "Great work, Morgan."

"Hey, you were right there with me," I say. "Now, go home, see your wife and your kid. It's late and that asshole's taken enough of our time these last few days."

"Couldn't agree more. See you tomorrow."

"Night." I flip my phone shut. And then I stare off at nothing in particular, still grinning.

We caught him; he confessed; it's over.

I was instrumental in taking that cocksucker down. _Me._ Two months ago I was nothing more than bait for a bunch of unsuspecting Johns, and today I'm getting congratulated for my work in closing one of the biggest cases Miami's seen in decades.

_What the fuck is even going on anymore?_

I go back to my bedroom, toss my phone on the bed and search for a pair of pants to sleep in, find them and pull them on. Then off comes my blouse and my bra, on comes a soft cotton shirt. When I shift my clothes off the bed I can smell him all over them, and for half a second I breathe him in, closing my eyes. God he was good. That hungry way he took my mouth, sucked away my breath, that urgent way he pulled at my...

My phone makes a beep, buzzes from somewhere in the comforter.

I look down, torn from the moment, note the little screen is white.

I reach for it and pull it toward me, flip it open. Text from a new number.

I hit enter, lay down. Find myself grinning again.

_How would you feel if I asked you out for dinner tomorrow? -Rudy_

Rudy. Rudy Cooper.

After a day like this I wouldn't even have necessarily cared if we never saw each other again (but I want to). It was all so heat of the moment, a mad fucking consumption probably driven by that adrenaline high I've been coasting on for the past two days finally breaking (_but I want to_). And seeing Tucci released, knowing that the Ice Truck Killer wasn't able to take everything from him, and knowing that that girl we saved from the motel is home tonight because of us... Today is the first day I've really, truly felt like the cop I've always wanted to be, like the cop my father would've wanted me to be.

(_fuck I want to_)

My phone's screen's turned itself off. I click it back on, grin and bite my lip as I think up possible responses. (_because I want to, jesus even if it's just to fuck like that again_)

_Pretty fucking great_, I type. Hit send.

I keep grinning, let the phone fall back onto my chest. I mean, really, why not? He's attractive, smart, funny, speaks French, puts people back together, even said he likes that I'm a cop. (fuck I hope he's not married again...)

My phone buzzes again, but this time it's a call. From him.

"Hey," I answer.

"Hey," he says.

I feel a pulse of warmth at his voice. I run my tongue against the back of my teeth.

"So how's seven thirty tomorrow grab you?" he asks.

"Sounds great," I say. (_but you know what almost sounds better..._)

"So what kind of food do you like?"

(_god I don't care_) I grin a little wider, "Surprise me."

"Spontaneous. I like it."

"Oh yeah?" I can imagine him there as I stare up at the ceiling. "What else do you like?"

"I'll make a list and read it off to you tomorrow."

Another pulse. "I can't wait."

He exhales lightly into the phone. "Text me your address."

"Alright, yeah," that comes out throatier than intended. "See you tomorrow."

"Count on it."

I pull the phone away, flip it closed, stick it back on my chest. Close my eyes.

I don't know what the fuck is going on today, but I'm not going to question it. It was one thing to take the professional win— catching the Ice Truck Killer in the act, saving that girl, getting congratulated by half my colleagues (even LaGuerta) —but to have such a sudden and ridiculously impulsive coming together with this guy too? Jesus, it's like receiving several grand karmic reimbursements on the same day.

I stretch my arms behind me.

And fuck me with Dexter's cactus if I couldn't admit that I'm kind of glad Rudy called, because I want to see him again.

I lift my phone and type in my address.

Hit send.


End file.
